Good Samaritan
by Jhun
Summary: Liz meets a stranger while riding in a London park. This stranger seems to be out of place and time and, of course, his name is Mr. Darcy. The two help each other find their way home. This is a WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Liz first saw Darcy in Regent's Park while cycling. He'd been there the past two mornings, sitting on a bench and staring intently in front of him. She remembered him because he was dressed formally, with a top hat and cane.

Liz stopped her bike in front of the odd stranger. Taking off her helmet she asked, "Hello?" The stranger continued to stare. Now that Liz was so close, she noticed that he wore a slight, frozen frown.

"Hello?" she asked again, this time getting his attention. He stared at her, looking both confused and a little shocked.

"Hi," Liz said again, "I'm Liz. I've seen you here the last two days and you seem a bit lost. Can I help you?"

"No, thank you. I'm not lost," he bit back. He furrowed his brow again and said, "I just don't know why I'm here."

"Are you meeting someone?" Liz offered.

"No. I . . . I don't know how to explain what's happening." The stranger bent over with his elbows on his knees and began speaking in agitation, clenching and unclenching his hands. "I'm not supposed to be here. I live down the road in Mayfair, but my home is not my home. It's now a shop for furniture and, as I was told by the store clerk, it has been for nearly 70 years. I assure you, madam, I was sleeping in my home three days ago. I didn't sell my home and I have no intention of doing so. I tried to reason with the clerk and she had me forcefully escorted out!"

The stranger looked up at Liz, her eyes displaying her pity and concern. This only seemed to agitate the stranger even more. "I know I'm in London, but it's not _my_ London. I know my name is Fitzwilliam Alexander Darcy, but none of the establishments I frequent, if they still exist, know who I am. I'm not crazy – as has been suggested by more than a few people I pass on the street. I just don't know what's happening."

Liz listened and looked on the man with compassion. Though his story was absurd and not a little crazy, she recognized the look on his face. He was desperate and lost.

"Here," she offered her hand. "You can stay with me as you try to find someone who can help you. Surely you have family in the area."

Darcy stared at her hand in confusion and disbelief. _I will not be handled like a stray or some urchin off the street!_ But her face was kind and Darcy was tired of wandering around a city he didn't recognize and among people he didn't completely understand.

Liz's hand was still out-stretched and she extended her hand a little further. "Can I call you William?"

Darcy stood up abruptly, stating a little more harshly than he intended, "No you may not. You may call me Mr. Darcy." Then continued more softly, "and I appreciate your offer. I do not relish the thought of spending another night sleeping in the park."

Liz had to look up at him; he was tall, a little over 6" without the hat. She was a little taken aback by his reply, but could not rescind her offer. "Alright, then. I live on the other side of the park. Come with me."

Liz walked her bike with Mr. Darcy walking beside her, complete with hat and cane. Liz would glance up at him a few times as they trekked back to her apartment. Not for the first time did she question to the wisdom of her actions. Mr. Darcy didn't seem one for conversation. After his confession on the bench, he sported a stony expression that didn't exactly inspire small talk.

As they neared her apartment, she said, "You should know that if you try to harm me that I own a firearm and I'm more than capable of taking care of myself." While the second part was a slight fib, she turned towards him, her face steely and her eyes determined. Mr. Darcy looked at her a little shocked by her speech. "If this is your plan, I recommend that you find another target."

"I beg your pardon! Who do you take me for?! I am a gentleman and would never dream of harming another person, the least of all a woman."

Liz relaxed a bit and explained, "I don't know who you are and I do believe that you need help. I just don't want my charity to backlash." Mr. Darcy huffed. "You have to admit that this situation is classic predator material."

"You have my word, as a gentleman, that you will come to no harm by me. I truly appreciate your offer as you are the first person to offer me genuine assistance instead of suspicious and mocking stares. When I figure out what is happening, I will repay you for your services."

By now they had reached the entrance to her building. Liz took her key card out of the pocket on her bike and said, "I appreciate the reassurance, but I don't need to be reimbursed." She offered him slight smile and opened the door. "You remind me of me when I first came to London. I only ask that you pay it forward."

Mr. Darcy held the door open for her as she maneuvered her bike into the entranceway. The concierge was just arriving and they exchanged a nod. After passing through another door, they entered Liz's spacious apartment. Mr. Darcy followed and looked around him, stunned at the space and furniture he saw. The entranceway was lined with . . . interesting art that made him instantly feel warm. The stress and anxiety he experienced the last two days was slowly beginning to ebb. The hallway led to a round, open room with a simply dining table and large white couches facing a wall of windows, opening to a balcony that wrapped around the room and open balcony. Mr. Darcy was stunned. He'd never seen a room so light and open that wasn't a ballroom. The natural light poured in through fine curtains, making it unnecessary to light a candle.

Liz leaned her bike against a wall and removed her shoes. She gestured for Mr. Darcy to follow her to the other end of the open room. She showed him a simply and spacious bedroom.

"You can stay here tonight. There is an en suite bathroom around the corner. Towels are underneath the sink and the shower should have everything you need. I have some clothes that might fit you in my room. I'll just be a minute."

She turned to leave when Mr. Darcy stopped her with his raised hand.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Are you going to fill the bath with water and why do you have men's clothing in your room?" he asked rudely. "And I'm not sure I'll be able to remove my jacket and boots with the help of a valet," he sheepishly added.

Liz stared, not sure to respond and questioning, not for the first time, the man's sanity. It didn't surprise her that he'd have a little trouble removing his clothing – everything fit him like a glove, a latex glove. She took a deep breath and headed to the en suite, gesturing Mr. Darcy to follow.

"I will not need to fill the bath with water because the bathroom is equipped with a shower," she explained. "See, you turn the nob and water comes from the showerhead. You can control the temperature with this nob."

"Extraordinary," he mumbled.

"To be clear, I do not have men's clothing in my room. I have _a_ man's clothing in my room. They are my husband's clothes and I believe you two are about the same size."

Mr. Darcy had the grace to blush and look at his boots for his insinuation.

"As I do not need servants to manage my home, I do not have a valet handy. I suppose, if you really need the help, I can help you remove your boots and jacket."

Mr. Darcy was shocked. "Absolutely not! It is not proper for a woman to help a man with his clothes. I will not allow either of us to be in such a precarious position."

Liz rolled her eyes and said, "Well, if you still need help, just holler." With that, she left to get him some clothing.

Mr. Darcy was left alone to admire the bathroom. This room was cooler than the bedroom. The walls were covered with soft brown tile. One wall, however, housed a water basin that was connected to a stone bench and had a large frameless mirror hung on the wall. Looking in the cupboards underneath the stone bench, he found soft, white towels that Liz had mentioned. He saw similar nobs on top of the water basin that Liz showed him in the shower. Turning the left nob, he was astounded to see water flowing out of the faucet. He put his fingers underneath the continuous stream and his eyebrows rose dramatically to find that the water was hot. To his right, he saw a white porcelain bowl, blushing as he figured out what it was. _Why is this not in a separate room? And how is the odor eliminated?_

At that moment, Liz reentered the bathroom with a small stack of clothing in her hands. She turned off the faucet and handed him the clothing. "Okay, I have jeans, an undershirt, and sweater for you, as well as any undergarments you'll need."

Mr. Darcy continued to blush and murmured his thanks.

"Are you sure you don't need my help with your boots?"

"I'm quite sure. Thank you," he answered a little tersely.

Liz could tell that his pride was taking a small beating and left him alone.

She made her way to her own bedroom, closing the door behind her even as she heard grunting coming from the guest room. _His boots must be winning this battle of wills,_ she thought wryly. She grinned and sat on her bed to think about her morning. She returned to London a few days ago to get the apartment ready before she started work again. She took a deep fortifying breath, imagining what next week would mean for her. She'd return to the hospital after an almost 12-month sabbatical. She was scared and anxious to return. Twelve months was plenty of time to break the routine she loved about her work and she hoped she wasn't too dazed among all of the activity, and trauma.

The only silver lining in the next week was her daughter. Genny was with her grandparents this week so Liz could "have a break". What people didn't realize was that Genny was her break. Aside from the closet in their London apartment, Genny was the last physical remnant she had of her husband. She shook her head to stem the direction her thoughts were heading and, after hearing Darcy's shower start, started her own.

* * *

Now clean from her morning ride, Liz made her way to the freshly stocked kitchen to make breakfast. After she got the burner going, she heard footsteps in the sitting room.

"I'm glad you survived your shower," she quipped. "I wouldn't have wanted to offend your delicate sensibilities and save you from the bathroom."

Mr. Darcy followed her voice to what he assumed to be the kitchen. "I admit that every contraption in that room is as extraordinary as it is confounding, but I'm not such a simpleton that I cannot bathe and dress myself." He stood erect and awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, watching Liz cook.

"Is it customary," he asked, "to walk around in one's stockings?"

Liz began filling their plates and glanced at him. She offered him a small smile. "I'm glad the clothes fit and no, it's not necessarily customary. I have house slippers you can wear if it makes you more comfortable."

"No, no, that won't be necessary. If you don't need to wear slippers," he gestured awkwardly to her bare feet, "then I won't burden you further with my, what was it you called them? Oh yes, my delicate sensibilities."

Liz broke into a full smile. _Maybe he does have a sense of humor after all._

"Here," she said, handing him his plate, "et's sit and eat and figure out what is happening."

Darcy followed her to the dining room and made to sit at the opposite end of the table. He set his plate down, waiting for Liz to sit while she looked on amused.

"What are you doing?"

"I will not be seated until you have."

"Seriously?" she sat down, staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Would you mind sitting closer? I don't feel like shouting across the table."

Darcy looked ready to refuse, but eventually moved to sit next to her. "I feel obliged to say that this is highly unorthodox. Everything I see doesn't make any sense. The last two days I've spent wandering around London at the height of confusion. I know who I am, but I cannot comprehend the world I'm living in. I feel like I have missed something monumental. "

Darcy's voice rose with the speed of his speech as he began listing all the differences he noticed from strange carriages, strange clothing, moving pictures, and deplorable manners.

"Then I meet you. I never would have expected a woman to approach me and invite me to her home, and I never dreamed that I would accept such an invitation from a woman clothed the way you were. Truly, your garments left nothing to the imagination. Then, I come here and find a home that is both peculiar and comforting and I experience a shower – I've never seen a cleaner bathing room. And the clothing you provided for me, while comfortable, is odd and too casual for a gentleman, but my last two days of observation has proven that this," he said gesturing to his sweater and pants, "is normal."

Darcy ended his speech in a huff, staring at his breakfast. Liz wanted to reach out to him, touch his arm or hug him, but knew instinctively that he wouldn't feel any comfort from her touch.

He continued more quietly, "I've been observing my environs for two days and trying to figure out what I missed. I have never been more lost."

Throughout his speech, Liz had listened and watched his expression shift from disbelief, shock, wonder, confusion, and finally defeat. Her heart went out to this stranger. Though not really in a place in her life to lift others, she felt rather than knew that she was the only one that could help him and that maybe, just maybe, his presence would help her as well.

She cleared her throat before addressing him.

"Mr. Darcy, I assume you haven't eaten in a few days. Why don't you eat and we'll solve your mystery after you've been properly fed."

While he ate she continued, "I understand how it feels to be in a strange, new place. I believe you, Mr. Darcy, and I promise to do what I can to help you."

Darcy stopped eating and looked at her, his grey eyes examining her brown. He didn't sense any pity in her voice, but understanding and compassion.

"I would be most grateful for your help . . . Miss Elizabeth."

"You're very welcome."

Understandably, Darcy was exhausted after he had eaten. He apologized for needing to sleep and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Liz used the quiet time making sure Genny's room was ready. While making her bed, she remembered when they started decorating her room. Charles was almost giddy arranging stuffed animals and putting together her crib. They spent weeks pouring over patterns, designs, and fabric samples. At the time, there was nothing more important than creating a safe haven for their baby. Liz would spend hours in the rocking chair, imagining what it would be like to finally have her in her arms.

" _Do you think she'll like her home?"_

" _Of course, what does she have to compare it against?"_

" _I'm serious, Charles. I just want to start all of this right. You can't redo first impressions and I want to make sure everything is ready for her."_

" _Everything is ready," he reassured her and kissed her forehead, "we are ready and this little girl will be the most loved little person on the planet."_

Liz shook her head to bring her thoughts back to the present. She wondered if she would ever stop missing him. Charles' parents encouraged her to sell the apartment and find a place that wasn't filled with the memory of him, but she couldn't. Not yet.

She turned her thoughts to the man in her guest bedroom and recalled the look of defeat that clouded his handsome face. Alone in her musings, she could admit that he was handsome. He was tall and lean like her husband was, but where Charles was fair, Mr. Darcy had dark hair, thick brooding eyebrows, and the clearest grey eyes she had ever seen. The poor man was so lost. She assumed he was in his early thirties and carried himself as one who never lacked confidence. He seemed to have lost that confidence, as well as his bearings. _It seems we've both lost our bearings_ , she thought.

She sighed and prayed that, at the very least, she would be able to help him find his place

* * *

The next morning, Liz woke up and rode her bike around Regent's Park. As she rode, she thought about how to help Mr. Darcy. He seemed like an intelligent man, just completely out of her element. What could have happened to him? Amnesia is a possibility. Maybe he's filming a documentary and she haplessly strolled into the role of the Good Samaritan. She was certain he wasn't planning on hurting her—his eyes were as honest in his desperation for answers while reassuring her that he was a gentleman. She hoped that a little time looking for him online would give her an idea of who he was and where he came from.

When she got back to her apartment, she didn't hear any movement and decided to hop in the shower. Darcy was still sleeping while she cooked breakfast, but the sound and smell of sizzling sausage woke him up. _Works with every man_ , she mused.

"I must beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth. I assure you that I don't normally oversleep."

"I imagine the last few days have been more than a little exhausting for you," she replied. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Coffee isn't usually my drink of choice," he absentmindedly responded while watching Liz use the coffee maker. His curiosity evident as his eyes followed her movements with hawk-like intensity. "Extraordinary."

Liz grinned at him, amused by his childlike fascination with every piece of tech he'd encountered in her home. "Would you like a cup? A nice strong cup will be sure to put you to rights after the last couple of days you've had. If it's too strong, I have creamer in the fridge."

Mr. Darcy continued to stare at the coffee maker as the black liquid started to stream into the pot. "Yes, I think I just might need to try some." With his own mug in hand, he unconsciously closed his eyes and groaned in pleasure. _She was right. All of my stress seems to be melting away._

Liz let him enjoy his coffee as she debated which questions she needed answered first. Though he seemed sincerely in his confusion, she couldn't completely rule out the looney bin. His dress and mannerisms bespoke of someone definitely out of place and time. His precise and clear diction clearly indicated that he was well-educated. Was he a method actor? Was she in the middle of some social experiment? If so, she was suddenly grateful to her mother and her southern upbringing. All of those lectures on hospitality had miraculously sunk in.

"So, where are you from, really?"

Mr. Darcy still hadn't opened his eyes since he started drinking his coffee. Liz had to clear her throat and say his name a couple of times to get his attention.

"I apologize, Miss Elizabeth. I wasn't attending what you were saying. I must of sunken into the abyss of this delightful drink."

Her mouth quirked up into a half smile as she considered her method actor theory. "I asked where you are from, really." He looked at her quizzically. "You're mesmerized by everything you see in my home. You act as if you've never seen a shower, a coffee maker, jeans, bicycle shorts, or literally any modern convenience. You can't be more than 30, and I guarantee my grandparents are more self-reliant. You speak of your home in Mayfair, even though Mayfair has been a ritzy shopping district for years. So, I'll ask you again. Where are you from?"

Liz noticed his back stiffen has she listed each of his social missteps. He set down his mug and his lips set into a thin, hard line. "I've already told you," he curtly answered. "My home in London is in Mayfair, but my family's estate is in Derbyshire."

"Do you have any form of ID to prove who you are?"

"ID?" he asked.

"Identification," she said more brusquely than intended. She was becoming really frustrated with this entire . . . whatever this was. "Look," she said. She had to squeeze her eyes shut and ball her fists to avoid shaking him. "I want to help you; I really do, but you have to give me something to work with."

She opened her eyes to see that his frown was still in place, though his mouth and shoulders had relaxed somewhat. She continued to look into her eyes, hoping that she saw her sincerity, even if her words seemed accusatory.

"I assume that you want to go home." He nodded in response. "And I want to help you do that, but I have a life to start again in two days. My daughter is coming home soon and I don't feel comfortable having a stranger staying here when she comes home. I also go back to work next week, among other family responsibilities. Since I only have a couple of unencumbered days to help you, I need you to be upfront and completely honest with me. Please don't take advantage of me."

Mr. Darcy swallowed as he listened to her speak. The intensity and light in her eyes commanded his attention and seemed to steal his breath. He attempted to mirror her calm intensity as he responded, "I assure you, madam, I abuse the kindness you have shown me. I have been honest with you. I want to return to my life as quickly as you want to return to yours."

"Thank you. Let's try to find your roots. Clearly, your London home is no longer there," She held up her hand to stay his rebuttal, "or there seems to be some confusion about ownership. Let's head north to Derbyshire and see what we can figure out. We can make it there and back in a day, but my husband's family has home close to Matlock where we can stay the night if we leave this afternoon."

"I hesitate to argue with you, but it takes much longer than a day to travel to Derbyshire. I've made the trek several times and it takes at least two days when the roads are clear."

"Mr. Darcy, we're going to drive a car."

"A car? The contraptions on the street? How fast can they go?!" he exclaimed. Each new question made his eyebrows raise higher and higher.

"You'll see, Mr. Darcy," Liz called behind her as she walked back to her room to prepare for their trip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Darcy had never experienced anything as chaotic as the modern highway. Miss Elizabeth repeatedly assured him that there were "rules of the road" that every driver had learned to follow. If one considered the speeds they were all traveling, it was a wonder he didn't see more overturned cars. Even with his seatbelt fastened, he wasn't reassured in the least. To distract him, Miss Elizabeth chose some recordings of Mozart for him to listen to while they drove north. _You seem like a classical kind of guy_ , she had said. _Mozart is hardly a classic_ , he had thought. _Plato, Aristotle, Homer. These are the classics._ Each new element that he encountered proved that his world had been completely overturned by some force bound and determined to see him crumble.

After about an hour on the road, the traffic cleared, and Darcy was able to think. Elizabeth had mercifully remained quiet as they drove through the city, whether to concentrate on the road or to avoid overstimulating him, he wasn't sure.

Darcy briefly considered their situation. She didn't seem overly concerned about her reputation and, if some of the displays he witnessed in the park by many couples were any indication, decorum was no longer a prized attribute. She did mention having a firearm. Taking into account her American accent and forthright behavior, he didn't doubt she was brash enough to use it on him. This world he was experiencing barely resembled his own.

His overactive mind tumbled question after question around in his head. Why was he here? Why is everything so different? What will I find in Derbyshire? How am I supposed to return home? Am I supposed to return home? And the most disturbing question of all: when am I? This was the question he didn't dare answer because it had the potential to alter everything he thought and knew. He'd always felt confident and self-assured. He reluctantly, but dutifully, became master of his own estate at the age of two and twenty when his father passed. He didn't feel like Pemberley's true master until he was six and twenty. He knew he was well-read and innovative; diversifying his farming techniques and business interests in ways few of his peers ever considered. He endeavored to be kind to his staff and tenants, loyal to his friends, and devoted to his family. Why was this happening to him?

After nearly a week in this strange new reality, he had to admit that he wasn't dreaming. The days and nights he spent in the park, hungry, wandering around London, and bearing the incredulous and incredibly rude stares from passersby was humbling and humiliating in the extreme—feelings that Darcy worked scrupulously to avoid since his Cambridge years. His only source of relief was Elizabeth. In a place where his good name meant nothing, she provided him with a place to sleep, food to eat, and a shower—easily the most delightful thing he had experienced this week. He had never been indebted to someone and wasn't sure how to thank her or "pay it forward" as she had suggested on the day they met.

"Alright," Liz said, breaking the seemingly interminable silence in the car. "You've had your time to think, but we still have two hours to kill until we reach Derbyshire. I suggest we play a game."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours."

"Excellent!" she exclaimed with a gleam in her eye that made Darcy more than a little suspicious of her motives. "The game is 20 questions. It's what we call a get-to-know-you game. If you play this well, I will know more about you and you will know more about me. Shall we begin?"

"Am I required to answer all of your questions?"

"Yes, and I'm required to do the same." Darcy was beginning to feel more nervous, but inexplicably wanted to know more about her.

"Fine, let us begin. Ladies first."

"I'll start with an easy question. Where in Derbyshire are we going? It's a large county and I don't want to drive around aimlessly until you find something familiar."

"My estate is east of the small village of Lambton."

"Are you serious?" she asked in disbelief.

"Do you know how to get there?"

"Yes. I've only been there a handful of times, but the directions are already stored in the GPS." Liz tapped the screen on the dashboard a few times and the directions, as well as ETA, appeared.

"The car knows how to get to Lambton?" Darcy asked incredulously.

"No," she replied while smirking. "GPS, which stands for global positioning system, is installed in the car. It uses satellites to locate the car and the location I wish to get to and calculates the best route to get there. "

Though he had no idea what a satellite was, he could only murmur "extraordinary" at the thought of knowing how to get anywhere you wanted to go.

"Okay," she said. "That was my first question. Shoot."

"Shoot what?" he asked quizzically.

Liz couldn't help rolling her eyes before clarifying, "Go ahead. Ask your first question."

"You are an American."

"That is a statement, Mr. Darcy. Should I describe what a question is?"

Darcy flushed and stammered, "What I mean is, well, what I was wondering was why you live here. I don't recall relations between the colonies and England being particularly amicable."

Liz quirked an eyebrow at his use of "the colonies", but answered as if he hadn't committed yet another faux pas. "I moved to London after I married my husband. His family has deep roots here and mine weren't deep enough to keep me in the States. What's your favorite food?"

"My London cook makes a wonderful sweet and sticky confection with raisins. I gather from your selection of Mozart that you are a lover of music."

"That's another statement, Mr. Darcy."

"Yes, yes, I know. My question is: do you play?"

"The piano? I used to. My mother subjected me to lessons for years so I'd have a 'classy' talent to display in pageants. I grew to love playing, but I haven't touched a single key in years. What do you like to do for fun?"

"Fun?"

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, fun. Other than eating sweet confections from your cook, what do you do that brings you joy and makes you smile."

"Well, I suppose I can say that I like to ride my horse. But I don't ride just for the enjoyment. I ride to travel and survey my estate—riding makes it possible for me to meet the demands of my position. It's serendipitous that I also take pleasure in the activity."

"I guess that response will have to do for now. For the record, normal people like to dance, cook, swim, play sports, or just about anything only because it brings them joy. You might be able to relax a bit more if you found a little more fun in your life."

Mr. Darcy thought on his life and realized it left little room in the way of real, pure enjoyment. He enjoyed fencing and debating, but only because he was particularly skilled at them and they were suitable and respectable activities for a man of his station. He enjoyed listening to his sister, Georgiana, play the pianoforte, but he also viewed it as part of his duty as her guardian, brother, and father figure. He quickly reviewed what he liked to do—he was saddened to realize the list was short indeed—and couldn't think of anything that could be classified as fun. It was unseemly to engage in pure frivolity, but there must be merit in finding an activity that would allow him to enjoy life rather than dutifully attack it.

He was about to ask Miss Elizabeth what she did for fun when his periphery was accosted by a man that seemed to fly by on something black and fast. "Good heavens! What was that?" he exclaimed.

Liz's hands gripped the wheel a little harder when the bike sped by. It took her a few seconds to steady her voice to respond.

"That, Mr. Darcy, is a motorcycle. That particular type is also known as a bullet bike or a crotch rocket, depending on the crowd."

"Is it a car?"

"It's like a car, but it's more like a motorized bicycle." Not wanting to discuss the bike anymore, she sought to bring him back to their game.

"Okay, my turn. So…"

"That doesn't qualify!" he interrupted.

"The game is 20 questions. You asked about the bike; now it's my turn."

"But that wasn't what I was going to ask!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Darcy," she answered sweetly. "I didn't make the rules, but we must adhere to them." She turned her head enough to smile enigmatically at him. Mr. Darcy was arrested long enough to forget his argument and allow Liz time to ask her next question.

"I think I already know the answer to this, but I'll ask it anyway. What do you do for a living?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"For work. What do you do to earn money?"

"I don't understand how that question is entirely proper."

"Need I remind you of the rules of the game, Mr. Darcy?" Liz asked while quirking that infernal eyebrow.

"No, indeed," he replied, his frown deepened. "I do not work, madam. I'm a gentleman. My estate earns money from our farms and tenant-run farms. There are other things I do to "earn money", as you so coarsely put it, but do not think it's needful to detail my income."

Liz only smirked in response. _Knew it. He's way to prim and proper. He reminds me of some of my in-laws._

Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and clasped his hands in his lap as he attempted to phrase his next question. "Um . . . is it customary for a woman to work?"

"Excuse me?"

"You mentioned needing to go back to work. Is that, um, normal . . . for women?"

"I think what you are trying to ask is why I work, so that is the question I'll answer. I work because I want to and a part of me needs to. I want to be a good example to my daughter, someone who works hard to provide for her family, and uses whatever talents she has to improve the lives of others. As to its normalcy, yeah, I'd say it's normal and acceptable for a woman to work."

All Darcy could do was blush and quickly nod his head. He couldn't fault her logic or reasons for working, though it still seemed odd to him. Every indication (aside from those blasted bike shorts) told him that Elizabeth was well-educated and a gentlewoman. It was obvious that she wanted work, though he couldn't really credit a reason or circumstance as to why it was necessary.

"Let's ask a few innocuous questions, since I get the feeling you are itching to say something truly misogynistic. What is your family like?"

"My family consists of myself, my sister, and two cousins with whom I am close. My sister is ten years my junior and recently married to a Lord Reginald Wattley. She is kind and gentle, like I remember my mother being. She loves to play the pianoforte and Mozart was her favorite composer."

"And your cousins?"

"I must beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, but you have already asked your question. I believe it is my turn."

"Well played, Mr. Darcy," she said with a grin.

"What is your family like?

"My family is also small. I have my daughter and an aunt and uncle who live in New York. Genny is 10 months and way too curious about the world around her. She's the happiest child I know and has yet to meet a stranger or anyone she doesn't count as a friend."

"And what of your husband?"

"Tsk, tsk. It's my turn. What is your favorite season?"

Since wearing the man's clothing, Mr. Darcy was curious about a man who would leave such a vivacious wife at home and how he would react to a strange man sleeping down the hall from her. Were they estranged? Darcy couldn't contain the frown that overtook his face as he realized she was avoiding the question.

"I think I prefer autumn." Remembering to keep the questions light and innocuous, he parried with, "Who is your favorite author?"

"Ooh, it's too hard to pick just one, but I'll settle with Tolkein. You don't look like the type to read fantasy novels, but Tolkein has a talent to create a world so unlike our own yet so similar that I feel like I'm escaping reality for just a moment , then reemerging with the fortitude to face it."

Darcy watched her as her face took on an almost dreamlike excitement as she described Tolkein's work. She was correct, he didn't much like novels, but he'd be willing to put aside his prejudice to experience what she had.

"What is the weirdest thing you've seen this week?" she asked, breaking his dreamlike rumination.

"Like you, I think it's difficult to choose just one," he quipped, making Liz throw her head back and laugh, a delightful and completely artless sound. Warming to his topic, he thought about everything he had seen and heard and settled on, "Trousers."

"Trousers?"

"Yes, especially on women."

"You have a creepy fascination with women's clothing, Mr. Darcy."

"I suppose women's trousers do fascinate me, but it's more the novelty of seeing them worn by everyone. It's difficult enough to preserve the appearance of rank when everyone's clothing looks the same while also confusing an onlooker about one's gender. It took no less than three misappropriations of sex when asking for assistance, that I settled with simply asking 'Excuse me' without the benefit of adding 'sir' or 'madam.'"

By the end of his explanation, Liz could hardly breathe for laughing. "Poor, Mr. Darcy," she lamented while wiping her eyes.

"'Poor, Mr. Darcy', indeed. I was and am extremely grateful that you saved me from the streets and any more embarrassing encounters." He watched her try to regain her composure and warmed at thought of being the cause of her merriment. Perhaps this is what it felt like to 'pay it forward.'

"You have already expressed an interest in the piano," he said, continuing their game. "May I ask who your favorite composer is?"

"Easy, it's Beethoven."

"The deaf and angry German?"

"Of course! He injects more emotion into his pieces than any other composer I know. When I played his work I felt like I had run a marathon with my fingers. There's nothing more satisfying than mastering one of his difficult and crazy fast movements. Mozart may be classic and classy, but Beethoven is brazen and beautiful."

"You are certainly led by your emotions," he stated, though it sounded more like an accusation. He cringed, waiting for her rebuttal.

"How else should I be led?" she asked sincerely. "My head will take too long to make a decision and may judge too hastily. My gut can be distracted by hunger. Though my heart isn't infallible, I've never regretted a decision I've made while following it, such as rescuing you from streets," she concluded with a charming wink.

"I can assure you that I will be the last person to ask you to recant that decision," he responded with equal sincerity. When she turned to look at him, he gave her a small smile that softened and brightened the storminess in his grey eyes. Discomposed, she turned her eyes back to the road.

"Now that we've settled that it is perfectly appropriate to be led by one's emotions, I get to ask my next question. When is your birthday?"

"October 14," he answered and paused before continuing,"1784."

Liz jerked into the next lane as she spun to look at him. "You're joking," she accused while righting the car.

"I am not. I've thought on my current state incessantly over the last four days. From the things I've seen and experienced, I must conclude that I have somehow been catapulted to some future date for reasons completely unknown to me."

"Impossible," she murmured.

"While I would normally agree with you, madam, I'm afraid my presence says otherwise."

Silence fell over the car as each considered the implications of their situation. All that could be heard was the eerie and misplaced tinkering of Mozart through the car stereo.

"May I ask what year it is?" he said with a little trepidation.

"It's 2015," she answered a little breathlessly. "Today's date is September 10, 2015."

 **Author's Note:** Though not as long, I hope this chapter helps you get to know these characters as well. I've been thrilled by the response I've already received and happy that a number of you are taking a chance on this modern story. I got a couple of great questions in the reviews that I would have like to answer privately, but I can't since the comments were left by guests. First is Darcy's use of "Miss Elizabeth". As you can see, he drops the formality, at least in his thoughts, in this chapter as he becomes more comfortable around Liz. Although married, Liz hasn't supplied him with her last name, so I imagine he would default to Miss in the absence of all of the needful information. While I think regency Darcy would have asked for a formal introduction, my poor Darcy has been emotionally assaulted for the last couple days and is trying get a grasp on reality. You also said that the use of 'Miss' and 'madam' were incongruent. Madam can be used when addressing women, regardless of marital status. Case in point, in the original P&P, Mr. Darcy ends Elizabeth's rant/refusual by saying, "You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings . . ." Another reviewer asked why Darcy wouldn't already know he was in the future by looking at a newspaper. My only defense, puny as it may be, is denial. He hasn't been willing to accept the truth, even though it was plain and obvious, until now. Thanks, again, to those who have read and reviewed. I want to update once a week and finish this story in a timely manner, but I make no promises as my time is held hostage by two little girls.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Silence reigned for several minutes, neither knowing what to say next. The robotic voice from the car's GPS told them they had 30 minutes left until they arrived at their final destination.

"When were you going to tell me?" Liz asked, with a steely intensity so unlike the calm warmth her voice normally portrayed.

"Tell you what, exactly?" Mr. Darcy countered.

"That you are 200 years old!" she exploded. "You're a smart man, Mr. Darcy. When did you figure it out? When were you going to tell me? How long were you going to play the poor, lost man act?"

"I've already told you. I will never . . ."

"How are you supposed to go back?!" she continued. "What have you been doing on that park bench? Waiting and scoping out a potential Daddy Warbucks? You must know that you're stuck here—time travel is impossible!—and you needed to play on someone pathetic and gullible enough to invite a complete stranger into their home. I can't do this."

Liz veered sharply off the road, causing Mr. Darcy to fumblingly find something to hold onto and brace himself while the car skid to a stop. _What is happening? What am I supposed to do with him? I can't leave him in Derbyshire, but I have to leave him in Derbyshire. He can't stay with me, with my child. How am I supposed to do a background check or explain him to the police when he challenges someone to pistols at dawn? I am not emotionally equipped to handle some hapless time traveler, no matter how handsome and sincere he may be. What am I supposed to do?_

Mr. Darcy sat, stunned, while Liz could only cry into her hands. The sound of her trying to catch her breath in between sobs finally caused him to pull his attention away from his erratic heartbeat to her hunched shoulders. He'd never been particularly skilled at comforting grieving women and he only felt comfortable holding his sister in his arms. He attempted to touch her arm or shoulder a few times before embarrassment made him retract.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" she mumbled into her hands.

"Do with me? I am a grown man, madam," he snapped, embarrassment quickly supplanted with indignation. "I thank you for your many kindnesses thus far, but I am not a poor street urchin that needs charity. I assure you that I did not come to the future intentionally. The last few days have been the most humiliating, shocking, denigrating, uncomfortable, and lonely days of my life! I am a man of privilege. I take care of all of those under my care with the utmost attention and I'm not used to begging or waiting for help. But, I suddenly find myself without friends, without a home, without the means, or knowledge by which I may care for myself. I am lost and confused and after only two days with you, I am indescribably tired of being a burden." By the end of his speech, his voice had dropped to a whisper.

The two wayfarers had unconsciously assumed similar stances: shoulders slumped, heads bowed. Mr. Darcy was the first to raise his head and look in Liz's direction. "I don't know what to do, Miss Elizabeth. I am reluctant to burden you further, but you are the only one that can help me."

The absolute humility his eyes melted the vestiges of Liz's panic and anger. _Come on, Liz! You've handled more difficult things than stuffy, ancient man this year. Just think, you may have found someone more emotionally messed up than you. At least the time you spend helping him will distract you from your own problems for a moment._ She giggled at the thought of making him her pro bono therapist.

"What could possibly be so funny?" he asked affronted. He was sincerely asking for aid. The least she could do was respond in kind.

Hurriedly dried her eyes with the back of her hand, she pulled back out onto the highway. "Of course I'll help you, Mr. Darcy. I'm sorry for freaking out," she added contritely, shooting him a sheepish grin. "You have to admit that you dropped a pretty huge bomb on me."

"Yes, well, no apologies are needed," he said, returning her smile.

"At least I know how to deal with you, even if I'm not quite sure what to do."

"I don't take your meaning," he said with a hint of wariness. Her eyebrow quirked again, a sure sign that she was about to tease him.

"When I first met you, I was debating whether you were an actor, a conman, or simply crazy. Now that I know you're crazy, I'll be sure to proceed with caution."

"I feel like I'm quite ready for Bedlam," he replied good-naturedly. "So long as I have your word that you won't subject me to an asylum, I think I can bear your teasing."

"I don't think I can make such a promise, Mr. Darcy," she answered with a full smile. With the warmth restored to voice and face, Mr. Darcy felt right and strangely optimistic about the future.

Returning to the problem at hand, Liz said, "I think we should still try to visit your home. Maybe there's some secret portal we can push you through. I just hope it's still standing."

"Whatever do you mean? Pemberley has been standing since William the Conqueror. I highly doubt 200 years would have caused it to fall." Liz whipped her head toward him at the mention of Pemberley.

"Of course you'd be one of those Darcys," she said with a slight eye-roll. Not knowing what to make of that statement, Mr. Darcy looked at her questioningly.

"Since we're family, Mr. Darcy, I think we should be known to each other on a first name basis."

"We're related?" he asked incredulously. "How? I don't have children, at least not yet."

"We are related through marriage, Grandpa Will. My husband was Charles Darcy. Where he falls in your list of progeny, I'm not sure. I'll bet the library has a complete family genealogy that goes back to William the Conqueror that we can investigate. Lucky for you, Pemberley has survived two world wars and an estate-demolition frenzy that saw the destruction of many country estates. I wonder how the estate has changed since you were its owner," she mused.

"So you believe that I am who I say I am?"

"I don't think I have much choice, Grandpa Will. I've decided to continue with this delusion until more facts present themselves."

"Please, just call me Fitzwilliam or William. I'm not old enough to warrant the title of grandfather."

"Au contraire, Grandpa Will, you are over 200 years old, but I'll compromise with William. You can call me Liz, but I get the feeling you would prefer Elizabeth."

"Yes, Liz seems a bit to, um, intimate," he finished with a blush.

Liz couldn't help but snort. "Poor, Mr. Darcy. The 21st century will not be kind to you. I strongly encourage you to relax or else your poor nerves will constantly be on edge."

"I will not compromise good manners in order to handle society," he harrumphed. "Perhaps it is you and this century who should work to attain my century's level of propriety."

"I'm not suggesting you behave badly, Mr. Darcy," she countered. "The last 200 years has seen more than one social revolution. If you hope to survive in this day and age, you'll need to see others as your equal in intelligence and worth, regardless of their outwardly appearance. Now, a white man can marry a white woman, same-sex marriages are allowed, men and women are leaders of business and nations, all religions are seen as equally uplifting, and, to quote the American constitution, it is generally understood that all men are created equal. It's miraculous and incredible that the ideals imagined by philosophers and thinkers from your day are finally being realized. Embrace these changes, Mr. Darcy, instead of gawking at them."

Darcy considered her advice and had to admit that there was merit in these so-called social revolutions. However, he was a man in whom duty, class distinction, and responsibility to that social order were deeply ingrained. "While I cannot guarantee that I will not be appalled by certain things, I will attempt to conceal my reaction and handle each social interaction with equanimity," he replied cautiously.

"How very diplomatic of you," she drawled. "You are definitely a Darcy, used to hiding your true feelings."

"Unlike you, I don't believe that all of ones emotions should be followed and indulged," he quipped, then cringed as he belatedly heard the insult.

Luckily, Liz only smirked, "We'll just have to agree to disagree on that one. And I do know how to reign in my emotions when needed. As you can see, even though we've had an amusing and enlightening conversation, I've been able to deliver us to Pemberley without any hiccups, excluding my hasty exit to the shoulder of course."

"We're already to Pemberley?" he asked distractedly.

"Sure are. It's just over this hill." She nodded ahead as the car made its way over a minor incline. Once at the top, the road wound its way down into modestly wooded valley. At the other end, nestled between woods and a rocky peak behind was Pemberley. Over the years, stone had lost some of its brilliancy, but none of its splendor. Its impressive façade filled with windows, covered portico, and graveled drive was awe-inspiring. With the sun fading in the west, the entrance would have been dark but for several lights shining from the portico and a few of the lower windows.

"Pemberley," he whispered in quiet reverence. He could already feel the muscles in his shoulders and jaw relaxing. He anticipated being greeted by Mr. Jones, his butler, and then waiting in his study before Mrs. Reynolds personally brought him his tea while informing him of the goings-on of the house. He could feel the soft leather of his chair, and his father's chair before him, cushion his tired body. He could smell the smoky comfort from the newly-stoked fires in to rooms the family normally occupied. He could hear the gentle melody from the Georgiana's pianoforte. He grinned as he imagined her playing Mozart. _I'm home_ , he thought as he closed his eyes.

He snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Liz unbuckling her seatbelt. Slowly stepping out of the car, his eyes swept over his home, searching for remnants of the past. When the entered the main hall, they were greeted by a casually dressed elderly woman with white hair and half-moon eyeglasses.

"Hello, Dr. Darcy," she said warmly. "We're so glad you were able to make it to Pemberley this weekend."

"Dr. Darcy?" Darcy thought absentmindedly. He stopped trying to follow their conversation as he gazed up at the chandelier in the main hall. This piece, along with the tables and checkered marble flooring remain unchanged. While the vases and other adornments were either absent or exchanged, Darcy's chest began to warm as he realized that much of his home remained the same. He was anxious to inspect the rest of the rooms, especially his study and bed chambers. Turning his attention back to the ladies, he realized they were moving toward the staircase.

Seeing that Liz was carrying two bags, he offered to take them from her. "Where are the footmen?" he asked as they followed Margie up the staircase.

"I'm afraid they've been lost to time," she replied. "Pemberley has a few permanent staff, as well as seasonal workers that are hired during the summer and holidays when this place is really busy, but they aren't here to wait on the family. Margie is our manager and oversees the tours, maintenance, and general upkeep of the house. She lives in Lambton and has only stayed this late to help me get settled."

She leaned in and whispered, "Margie has opened up a guest room for you, a few doors down from mine. I told her you're a friend of mine and Charles' from the city and that you're writing a tourist's guide to England's country estates. I didn't give her your last name as I thought that would garner too many questions."

As he processed his backstory he asked, "Why can I not stay in my bed chambers?"

She looked at him as if he had truly lost his mind, "You aren't the master of Pemberley, William. As far as anyone else his concerned, you're my guest for the weekend. Plus, the master suite is where I'm staying and we wouldn't want Margie to get the wrong impression, would we?"

"Of course not," he stammered, "how silly of me. It's just . . . I finally feel . . . grounded or anchored. I had hoped to see my rooms, something familiar . . ." His voice trailed as he unsuccessfully tried to find the words for what he was feeling.

Liz looked on him with compassion and realized the man needed an anchor, his place of zen. His roots were deeply ingrained in this place. Naturally, he'd want to solidify that feeling while everything around him had shifted and changed. She also felt unprepared to stay in the master suite again. She'd only been to Pemberley once and that was for her honeymoon. She was reluctant to test her reaction to those rooms and was happy to switch William for the few days they were here.

"We can switch," she answered. His face lit and seemed to walk down the hallway with more certainty. _Even if I don't give the staff your full name, William, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to hide your lord-of-the-manor strut,_ she thought wryly.

Margie stopped when they reached the rooms that had been opened for them. "Is there anything else I can get you before I leave," she asked Liz.

"No, I think we're set. Thank you."

"The fridge is stocked and I will be in my office at nine if you need anything. Also, tours start at ten, so you may want to show your friend the park until after three, though it might be a good idea to join one of them."

"We'll plan on it. Thanks, again, Margie."

William turned to enter the master suite and was surprised to see Liz following him.

"I'm sure the suite has changed a bit since you last saw it. I just want to show you around, then I'll leave you alone," she answered.

Walking in to his rooms, he was saddened to realize she was right. The bones of his room were the same, but the décor had changed from the dark blue he preferred to a light green palette that seemed much too feminine. She led him into the dressing room and he was surprised to see a full bathroom in its place, she then showed him the walk-in closet and armoire he could use to store his clothes.

"I thought we'd eat in an hour. If you need anything, I'm staying in the room two doors down, but you'll find me in the kitchen. Remember, there aren't any servants so we're on our own. I get the feeling you won't get lost. If you do wander the house, remember to turn off the lights as you leave the rooms," she finished while showing him how to find the light switches.

"Welcome home, Mr. Darcy," she smiled before closing the door behind her.

 **Author's Note:** Thank you to all of you who have read and responded so positively to this story. You've encouraged me to push through this surprisingly difficult chapter. I know where I want this story to go, but it has been difficult filling in the blanks.

I also want to thank you for sharing the obsession. While I won't be melodramatic and say that this site is "home" to me, it definitely feeds my inner Janeite. I really enjoy escaping into this world and being understood by my fellow escape artists. It's been a lot of fun writing this story without being judged or needlessly edited. I've loved responding to your reviews and reading your conjectures and what you anticipate. I hope to deliver and meet your expectations so we can enjoy the ride together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I haven't edited this chapter because I was anxious to post it before my battery died. I solemnly promise to do so before I post chapter five. I also apologize for the delay. My toddler figured out how to escape her room and I sincerely thought my carefully crafted and scheduled world was coming to an end. As always, a huge thank you to those who have taken a chance on this story. Your encouragement and praise have inspired me to take it much further than I ever intended.

 **Chapter 4**

Mr. Darcy stood in the middle of his room, unsure what to do next. If he listened hard enough, he'd hear Jones straightening his things in the dressing room or maids stoking fires and softly speaking to each other in the staircases between the walls. He waited, hoped, and eventually made his way to the bed. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he looked around and cataloged all that had changed. Naturally, the linens and drapes had been updated. The mattress felt much more comfortable than he was used to; it even favorably compared with the mattress in Elizabeth's home. As far as he could tell, his writing desk had survived, as well as the frame of his bed. He tried to make out more differences, but the light was fading fast. He doubted he'd be able to find the materials necessary to start a fire so began scanning the walls for a light switch.

"Electricity is absolutely extraordinary," he murmured while turning on a light. He sighed and continued to scan his room. "Can I still call this my room?" he wondered aloud. "The building still stands, but nothing that makes it mine has remained."

Thinking of the people who worked on the estate—his steward, gardener, stable heads, housekeeper, maids, footmen, and coachmen—made his heart and head ache with anxiety. They were dead, gone, disappeared along with the last 200 years. For perhaps the millionth time in the last week, he truly felt alone and lost. _This must how Job felt. Everything I love and built has been taken from me. How do I even begin to get it back?_ He desperately needed a drink and hoped Elizabeth would have keys to the wine cellar.

Endeavoring to stave off his morose thoughts, he found a modicum of comfort in the fact that Pemberley seemed to be flourishing. The park was still lush and verdant. The estate still stood majestically against the peaks. His family still owned and managed the property. He slowly grinned as he realized that he was able to fulfill his duty to his family and the estate. Wasn't that the lesson his father had instilled him summer after summer? His life was one of privilege and opportunity, but it came with a price. He was tied to this land. His birth secured its continuity and how he lived his life would ensure its prosperity. Knowing that he and his children and his children's children continued the Darcy tradition of honor, responsibility, and duty filled him with profound peace. For once, he felt blessed to have undertaken this unique adventure: he saw the fulfillment of his life's work. With this feeling firmly implanted in his heart, he washed his hands, combed his hands through his hair, and moved to straighten the sleeves of his coat until he remembered he was wearing a T-shirt. When Elizabeth suggested he wear this garment today instead of a sweater or jacket, he nearly exclaimed his discomfort at feeling so exposed, but blessedly refrained from expressing his true feelings. Elizabeth had enough wit to tease him at every turn, but enough charm to lessen the sting. Nevertheless, he was beginning to grow tired at being the constant source of her amusement, as well as her vexation. After looking over his appearance once more, he left his room to make his way to the sitting room nearest the small family dining room.

This was always his favorite sitting room and the one he and Georgiana used frequently. It faced the southern gardens and never received too much sunlight in the summer months. Like his bedchamber, the rug and wallpaper had been updated, but the furniture, though newer, seemed to retain the style from his time. The furniture Elizabeth had in her apartment was extremely comfortable and luxurious, but it didn't have any of the ornamentation he came to expect. It was functional and every piece served a purpose. While appreciating the familiarity of such aesthetics, he had wonder why Elizabeth did not change the style of Pemberley to match that of her London home. As mistress, she would have been within her right to do so.

Thinking of Elizabeth reminded him that she said she would be in the kitchen. He walked to the back of the house and down a few stairs to find Elizabeth at stove, cooking something that smelled luxurious. He sat at the table in the middle of the spacious room and looked around. He didn't make it a habit to visit the kitchen when he was master; it made him supremely uncomfortable to enter what he considered to be the housekeeper's and the servants' domain. There was a massive fire that started in these kitchens the summer before he turned five and twenty. Thankfully, it was contained, but the entire house smelled of smoke for a month and the kitchen had to be completely rebuilt. This room had been modernized even since the remodel he oversaw. He recognized many of the same appliances he saw in Elizabeth's London home. The stones, however, on the walls and floors remained untouched.

"What is that delightful smell?" he asked. As soon as he asked, he could hear his stomach rumble and mouth begin to water.

"This, my dear William, is chicken marsala," she replied. "It's my go-to comfort meal and, considering the afternoon we've had, the perfect end to a stressful day. Could you set the table? You'll find everything you need in the cupboard and drawer over there." She nodded to a corner of the kitchen.

Sitting down to eat, Darcy murmured his thanks and delight before they both succumbed to silence and delicious food.

Not being able to stand the awkward silence any longer, Liz asked, "How do you like your rooms?"

"I like them very well, thank you," he replied and continued while setting down is fork, "It's strange. Pemberley is still Pemberley. The walls and rooms are much as they were, but there is less furniture and decoration. The linens, carpets, rugs, and curtains seem to have been updated—I would expect no less after 200 years—but it's the overall sense that I get walking down the hallways that this place is no longer mine. I used to walk through these halls and feel the mantle of stewardship upon my shoulders. To me, it has only been two weeks since I was last here and I can already feel the absence of that mantle. It's both a relief and highly distressing."

"I think I know how you feel. Pemberley has never felt like home to me. Charles loved it, but our lives were in the city. When we were here, he took to me to the gallery and told me brief stories of every one of his ancestors. Every hallway and room seems to have history behind it. I'm rarely here and have never been comfortable without Charles. On paper, this should feel like home, but it's not."

Sensing an opening, he finally decided to ask, "Elizabeth, may I ask where Charles is? Shouldn't he be here with you?"

Liz froze; her fork halfway to her mouth. Carefully setting it down, she slowly used her napkin. Before she could answer, Darcy continued in a rush. "I don't mean to ask such personal questions, but it has been on my mind for some time. I wear his clothes and have accompanied his wife to his home. I noticed that you occasionally wear a wedding band, so do not be angry for my burning curiosity."

Liz could only smirk as he finished and began to fidget in his seat like an errant little boy.

"Your question is too personal," she assured him. "After all, we are family." He smiled in relief and looked at her expectantly.

Taking a deep breath, she answered, "Charles died six months ago in a motorcycle accident. His back tire was clipped and he died. The driver was on the phone or texting or doing something other than paying attention to the road. I've been able to pack and store his things from our apartment in London, but I can't bring myself to pack his clothing. Lucky for you," she quipped.

"I only take off my ring when I ride my bike," Darcy noticed that she had begun to twist the ring on her finger and was about to ask more questions and stopped himself. Liz noticed his hesitation and asked him to "spit it out."

"I don't normally like to talk about Charles, so if you have questions you better ask them now."

"Why aren't you in mourning?" he asked.

"People don't usually show their grief. Nowadays, you're expected to keep it to yourself and in your homes. I was lucky to be able to take a long sabbatical from work; it's normal not to get more than a few days off when someone close to you dies. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I was still on maternity leave and I was granted more time. Though I don't show it, William, I am mourning. Quite frankly, I'm not sure I know how to stop. So, I ride. I spend my days devoted to Genny and I perform acts of heroism for poor lost souls, such as you."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.

"Don't be," she said, waving off his condolences. She was sick of hearing them. "You didn't hit him."

"All the same, I've been to more than enough funerals for people I loved. It's an experience I had rather foregone and I'm sorry it's one you've had to endure."

"Thank you," she said quietly, sincerely touched by his understanding.

"May I ask how you met?"

She laughed, "Is it so difficult for you to imagine an American in England, especially in Pemberley?"

"Not at all!" he exclaimed, hurrying to justify his questioning, "I'm just interested in knowing more about you. You don't seem to enjoy living here, so I wonder how you came to be here and why you stay."

"The answer to your first question is easy enough. Charles and I met in New York. He spent six months there working in the New York offices of Darcy Enterprises."

"Surely you joke," he interrupted. "The Darcys are not in trade."

"I promise you, they are," she countered. "And they are really good at it. If it weren't for a thriving business, Pemberley would have been lost decades ago. Anyway, Charles and I met in New York during my last year in med school. We married less than a year after we met, much to his parents' outrage. After finishing my studies, we moved here. He had to work and I could complete my residency anywhere. I stay because of Genny. She has family here. She's Charles's daughter and deserves to know where she comes from."

"You don't consider your family as Genny's family," he cringed. He had meant to frame it more as a question. What spewed from his mouth was more judgmental than he intended. He saw Elizabeth stiffen and he instantly regretted his confounded curiosity.

"Of course they are," she said tersely, "but they aren't around to enjoy her."

Darcy was going to apologize, but was stalled as Elizabeth abruptly stood and began clearing the table.

"I think we should make our way to the library, don't you? We may be able to figure out what happened to you and how to get you back to when you belong."

"Of course," he mumbled and stood. "Allow me to assist you. You prepared this excellent meal. I can't allow the mistress of Pemberley to clean, also."

"I'm not the mistress of Pemberley," she cried and nearly threw the dishes in the sink. "That _honor_ belongs to my mother-in-law. Please, let me do these dishes and I'll meet you in the library."

"As you wish," he answered, stunned at the reaction his feeble and novel request to do chores had received. He looked back at her once more before exiting the kitchen. She was still grasping the sink as if she required it to stand and staring unseeing out of the window. Deciding it was probably best to give her some time and space, he climbed the stairs and made his way to the library.

Liz heard Darcy's footsteps grow fainter as he walked softly—almost cautiously—toward the library. When she couldn't hear them anymore, she turned and thought to follow him so he wouldn't get lost. _Well, if he really is who he says he is, he should have no problem finding the library._

She sighed and got to work on the dishes. Menial tasks always had a way of helping her focus her thoughts and whirling emotions. When Charles died, she painted their entire London apartment and had started remodeling their kitchen until her friend and neighbor stopped by. His visit also made her stop and examine the direction her life was heading. Charles's funeral was a media frenzy. His family is part of the peerage and held in reverential, feverish fascination by the British paparazzi. All of her frustration and anger toward her in-laws, the paparazzi, possibly post-partum, and every other misfortune she had to endure during her short life was channeled into renovation. Painting proved too calm and meticulous, so she turned on her kitchen with a mallet. After banging away for more than an hour, she sat on the floor, tired and exhilarated. It was in this state that Jack found her.

" _What are you doing?" he asked slowly as if approaching an armed gunman._

" _I'm taking a break," she replied._

" _I see that," he said. "Why are you demolishing your beautiful kitchen at two in the morning?"_

" _I can't sleep," she answered simply. "I can't sleep in that bed without him," she continued softly, tears rolling down her face. "I can't go outside without a thousand flashing lights greeting me and following my every move. I'm trapped in this place with Genny and these pictures and his smell and his disgusting health food and everything that reminds me that I am alone."_

 _She stopped and finally turned to look at Jack who was now sitting beside her. "I loved my kitchen, but I don't deserve pretty things. I'm going for a rooster theme so I'll grow to hate this apartment and move."_

 _Jack couldn't help but chuckle. "Let's hold off on major design decisions until you've rested for at least two days. Deal?"_

Jack helped her replace her kitchen and convince her stay. "Where are you going to go?" he would ask. When she couldn't give an answer, she decided it'd be best for Genny to stay close to her family. Over time the paparazzi found something more interesting than a grieving widow and she was able to focus on finding a job and moving forward.

Thinking of Charles and his family always flared her temper. The Darcys were kind enough, considering she was American and very blue-blooded. They despaired at her desire to pursue her career instead of being involved with various charitable causes and "happenings" around town. They loved Genny, and that was all Liz required of them. She had loved Charles. He made her feel alive and connected to people and places. He was like pure sunshine, and then he died. She was lost until she wasn't. It bothered her that she wasn't grieving. Darcy's question about her mourning ignited her guilt and made her wonder when she had become so cold. Had she ever really loved Charles? She didn't want to answer that question tonight.

Finishing up the dishes, she climbed the stairs and began the trek to the library.

Darcy stopped at the entry of the library and took a large, filling breath. The room was exactly as he remembered it, save for the chairs and sofas, which had been replaced by more modern and plush versions than he was used to. The dark mahogany gleamed and the shelves were full of beautiful tomes. He wandered the length of the room; many of the books he recognized while some near entrance seemed newer, though beautifully bound. As with his thoughts of the estate, he was gratified to know that a love of books within the Darcy family hadn't diminished. He made his way up the stairs where the older tomes were kept. His fingers glided over first editions and paused at a few that he had purchased. It was only slightly discomfiting to see that they now looked old and aged, reminding him that he was a man out of place and time. He sighed and walked back down the stairs toward the end of the library. Assuming that the cataloging system hadn't been changed, the bookcase in the corner was where his family histories were kept. This bookcase held journals, memoirs, the family Bible, and other historical documents pertaining to the family. It always thrilled him to stand in front of the bookcase and see the records of hundreds of years of family history before him. It filled with pride and anxiety as he prayed that he wouldn't be the one to cause his legacy to crumble.

Darcy skimmed the spines of the books before him, looking for a date or name that could help him unravel the mystery of his adventure. He jumped when Elizabeth spoke behind him, "I'm glad to know you weren't lost. I only know how to get to five rooms in this place and really wouldn't be qualified to come and find you."

He turned to smile at her and say, "You need not worry on my account. I can find way around any place in Pemberley without the aid of a candle."

"Is there a particular book you're looking for?" she asked.

"This bookcase contains my family history. I was hoping to find one of my journals or some record around my time that may tell me if I find my way back and, I hope, how I did it."

"It's not a terrible idea. What year are we looking for?"

"1814. I completed the harvest in September and was spending a few weeks in London on business. I had just hosted a small dinner party in honor of my birthday when—I'm afraid to admit to you—I imbibed a bit more than is my want and fell asleep in my study on the night of October the fourteenth."

"That's it? You got drunk and fell asleep in your office? If you are a time traveler, I'd expect you to have a run-in with gypsies or meet a crazy professor in a futuristic car. What did you drink? Absinthe and vodka?"

"I believe it was just cognac my cousin had procured from the mainland," he said while a blush crept up his neck."

"I don't really have experience drinking, but from this little story I would say you're a lightweight, which is surprising given your height and weight."

Darcy said nothing, but his blush deepened and Liz decided to move the scavenger hunt along. She started to systemically scan the bookcase and ask, "So, do you keep a journal?"

"I did," he answered, eager to change the topic. "I'm afraid my entries won't be very revealing. I primarily discussed the goings-on of the estate, my concerns for Georgiana, and potential investments."

"Do you know why most, normal people keep a journal?"

"I'm sure you'll enlighten me even if I answer in the affirmative," he drolly replied.

"To record their thoughts, fears, hopes, dreams, and basic concerns of their souls," she exclaimed. "Look, we've already established that you may be emotionally stunted, but I'd like for you to follow my logic. If you actually fell asleep drunk in your study and magically ended up 200 years in the future, I highly doubt we'll find some secret serum or equation that will send you back. For someone with as much pent-up as you, dear William, I hypothesize that your misadventure is tied to some conflict from within."

"Yes, well, that's an interesting theory. I'd rather examine all likely avenues before delving into the darkest recesses of my soul."

"As you wish."

Silently they scanned the centuries-old journals, ledgers, and other Darcy records. Liz had to admit that, aside from the bizarre and unbelievable circumstances that brought them to this moment, she couldn't help but feel a connection with these books. As a general rule, everything that defined Charles's world overwhelmed her. Everything was grand and longstanding and she had constantly felt like an intruder. Seeing the handwriting of Genny's ancestors made them seem much more human and real than any portrait. She hoped to return to Pemberley and spend some time reading the inner thoughts of ancient Darcys. She idly wondered if she should consider keeping her own journal. She was a Darcy after all.

Her musings were interrupted by Darcy's soft exclamation, "Georgie!"

"You found something?"

"Yes," he whispered, slowly opening a leather journal with yellowed pages. "I found one of Georgie's, my sister's, journals. She started it when she was first married and it continues through 1818."

"Why is it here if she married?"

"I'm not sure, but I hope these pages will tell me. Please excuse me, Elizabeth. I would like to retire now and read my sister's journal."

"Of course, William. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Darcy gently held his sister's journal as he made his way to his room. While anxious to hear what happened after his birthday, he feared what he would learn from his sister's writings, all the while praying Georgie's journals would be more illuminating than his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Liz sat in one of the over-stuffed chairs in the library after Darcy left. She couldn't shake the feeling of sadness that enveloped her when he found his sister's diary. She wanted to maintain her disbelief in the time-traveler theory; if such a thing were possible she could hardly begin listing all of the complications that came from assimilating into the 21st century. But she couldn't deny what she saw on his face as his fingers tenderly glided over the leather cover of the journal. He held it like she held Genny after she was born, like something infinitely fragile and precious. Liz had always been insatiably curious and she to force herself to stay in the library rather than follow Darcy and read over his shoulder.

To occupy her mind, she looked through some of the other books in Darcy Corner, as she was beginning to call it. She thumbed through an old ledger and saw line upon line of expenditures required by the estate: tenant housing repairs, bridges, fencing, livestock count, production by the home farm and the tenant farms, etc. Next to that ledger was one just for the horses. The pedigrees and health of each horse was so detailed that Liz assumed the Darcys must have been horse breeders at one point. Currently, the estate kept five horses on the property and this ledger boasted a stable of over 30.

Next, she picked up the journal of George Theodore Darcy, dated 1800 and seemed to end in 1807. The entries were brief and his handwriting was meticulous and ridiculously straight. Journal keeping, she decided, was a labor of love. In a time when pictures and videos weren't readily available and each moment was captured with the written word instead of an image. She scanned through a few entries and gasped when she read a familiar name.

 _10 June 1804_

 _Fitzwilliam is returning home this week. Georgiana and I have missed him while he toured, but his letters were so light-hearted and enthusiastic. It seemed as though he was finally living as a young man should, which is why his homecoming is so bittersweet. I wish he could continue to travel, see masterful works of art, listen to music from all over the Continent, meet and dance with beautiful women, and avoid the burden that I must place on him. I hesitate even to write it, for in writing it the truth will be recorded forever and cannot be disputed._

 _I am dying. A bad heart. It comes as no surprise to me as my heart has suffered since I lost my Anne._

 _I don't know how I am to tell Fitzwilliam. He is too young to take on the estate, care for his sister, and live a joy-filled life. If forced to choose, I know that he will sacrifice his happiness in the name of duty. It is the choice I would make, but my son deserves more._

Could this be William's father? She had no way of finding out until she asked him and she didn't imagine seeing him until the morning. Her heartened softened towards him, assuming that he was this Fitzwilliam and, if so, lost both of his parents by the time he was in his twenties. While too old to really be considered an orphan, she couldn't imagine taking on the management of Pemberley. It was hardly a mystery as to why he was so serious.

Liz read a few more entries before she impatiently flipped to the end. She morbidly needed to know what a dying man thought about at the end of his life. Towards the end of the journal, she noticed the entries were very brief and the once immaculate, crisp handwriting was still neat, but would occasionally sport a large ink blot or the ends of words would resemble little more than squiggles.

"His hands were shaking," she thought aloud. "Poor George was not doing well. He was either weak with low blood sugar, complication with his medication—or the 19th century equivalent of medication—or he had seizure or his heart problem was actually a more compounding disease." She shook her head to end or nonsensical musings and focused on George's last entry.

 _1 October 1807_

 _This is the first time I have felt this clear in weeks. The regiment Dr. Morris has ordered me to take leaves me in such a fog. My dreams of Anne have become more vivid, as if she is anxiously waiting for me to join her. I am desperate to see her!_

 _Fitzwilliam performed admirably this autumn. My valet informed that the harvest went smoothly. I'm proud to say that Fitzwilliam is ready to manage Pemberley. I had always hoped my son would love the land as much as I do and I can truthfully say that Fitzwilliam's devotion is overwhelming. Our legacy is in good, capable hands. I wish I could say that I am loath to leave my children, but I am not. I know that they are good, kind people. Anne and I somehow managed to pass on the best of us into each of our children. Fitzwilliam has my devotion and Anne's compassion. Georgiana is her mother's twin in both looks and musically talents and also carries a deep love for Pemberley, especially its people._

 _I have never been a religious man. Now, in what I can only surmise are my final moments, I feel the immensity of eternity. I feel as if I have played my part on earth and I'm anxious to see what lies beyond. Will my Anne greet me? Will she be joined by my parents, my brother, and my children who I didn't hold for more than a few hours? What wonders wait for me when I finally close my eyes? If what all I hope for actually waits for me, then I can only pray that my children will live well before they hasten to my side._

Liz absently wiped away tears that had begun to slowly fall. If this was Fitzwilliam's father, she hoped that he had read these words. She only had a tenuous connection to George Darcy before reading his journal, but now her heart echoed his final written words. Life had not been gentle with her, but she continued to hope in the Sunday lessons she had heard all her life: life that continued after death, without fear, without pain, and without suffering. She ruefully smiled as she felt the tendrils of familial love begin to grow. She was beginning to feel like a Darcy and beginning to understand why Charles loved this home so much. Liz made a silent vow to bring Genny here regularly so she could carry the Darcy love of land to the next generation.

Reverently closing George's journal and returning it the shelf, she was surprised to see that it was nearing eleven and decided it was time to go to bed. Though hesitant to disturb William, she thought it wise to check on him. She had a feeling that they would have a lot to discuss tomorrow.

Once safely in his room, he chose a chair next to the dormant fireplace and turned on the nearest lamp. His hands shook slightly as he opened the cover and began to read Georgiana's fine handwriting. It was neatly and flowing, perfectly feminine. He remembered walking her down the aisle on her wedding day, wondering how he had missed his baby sister becoming a beautiful, elegant, and accomplished woman. Somehow, her script was able to embody all that he loved about her. He took fortifying breath and began reading her first entry.

 _23 July 1813_

 _I am now a married woman! I can hardly stop myself from smiling! I have just completed a letter to Fitzwilliam and nearly giggled while signing Lady Wattley. Reginald has been everything I ever hoped for in a husband. He is kind, loving, steadfast, and extremely loyal. Now that I think of it, he is my brother, but blonde and a tad shorter. How do I even begin to describe my joy? Our first night together was magical._

Darcy could feel his face burning as he hastily flipped a few pages. While reassured that his sister was as happy as she seemed, he didn't need to hear all of the lurid details. Darcy was more than pleased to give his blessing to the man that had restored his sister's confidence and truly helped her move on from the disastrous affair with Wickham. Just thinking of that cad's name made his fists clench. Lord Reginald Wattley was everything Wickham refused to be. Like Darcy, he inherited his title and estate at an early age. He had proven himself in the House and was somehow able to increase the yields of his estate in Yorkshire—its location was appealing to both Darcys as it ensured their closeness would not be hindered by distance. However, their honeymoon, estate issues, and Georgiana's pregnancies prevented them from seeing each other until Darcy's birthday dinner.

He continued to flip through pages as he neared October 1814. Even though he knew that Georgiana safely delivered the most beautiful baby boy, he didn't want to hear of the pains she endured while carrying and delivering him. She wrote to him of the two miscarriages she suffered before little George was born and the memory of the pain he felt while reading them and the pain most certainly felt while writing them would not soon be forgotten. Also, after seeing his own mother suffer after losing four children between himself and Georgie, Darcy had created a very healthy and real fear of pregnancy. He slowed his perusal as he saw entries for the first, and then the tenth of October. He smiled as he saw an entry on his thirtieth birthday.

 _14 October 1814_

 _Today is Fitzwilliam's thirtieth birthday. I can hardly believe he's so young, yet so old. He's always played the double role of father and brother to me. Tonight, however, I was truly able to see him without the light of brother, protector, and guardian around him. I suppose it is just motherly instinct or the fact that I am incandescently happy in my own life that I am able to more clearly see when others lack such a glow. What I saw tonight truly worried me. Fitzwilliam seemed so lonely. He smiled and occasionally laughed, but there was no light in his eyes. And, when he thought no one was looking, that pall of loneliness quickly took over his handsome face._

"When did you become so perceptive, little sister? I can readily accuse your new motherly instincts. Though I fondly remember that dinner, I suppose I wasn't really able to hide from. Even surrounded by the people I treasured most and I couldn't feign complete happiness. Yes, Georgie, I think you're right. I am lonely."

Not wishing to dwell on that new facet of his character, he returned to Georgie's musings.

 _I feel so foolish and foolishly selfish to only notice all that he has done and given. It took my dear Reginald to help me see and understand that Fitzwilliam put his life and needs aside to raise myself and Pemberley since our father died. According to Reginald, Fitzwilliam has ensured Pemberley's continuity and prosperity for the next one hundred years by investing in various endeavors. In fact, it is his foresight that has inspired Reginald to do the same for Kellerton. It is no great secret among the family I owe my happiness to Fitzwilliam. If not for his protection and support, I would not have Reginald or my darling George to call my own. My soul shudders at the thought of being trapped with Wickham for the rest of my life. Naturally, after accumulating a multitude of burdens and responsibilities, my poor, dear brother has scarcely had time to devote to his own happiness. It must now become my fondest wish and most fervent prayer that he find someone worthy of his heart. But how am I to find such a woman? The woman worthy of him must be equally loyal, loving, willing to labor beside him, and capable of making him smile. I rarely see him smile, but when he does, I can see it lighten his entire being. Yes, he dearly needs to smile. Does such a paragon of strength and femininity even exist? I'm fairly confident she doesn't exist in London or among the elite in the country. Where are you, Mrs. Darcy? I must ensure my brother's happiness as perfectly as he ensured my own._

"Oh, Georgie. You are not meant to care for me in this manner. I never wanted to be a burden to you, or anyone for that matter."

He sadly admitted that he had become just that. He was an enormous and indelicate burden on Elizabeth. She had been so unassuming in her assistance. While he knew that she didn't completely believe his story—in all honesty, he was still reluctant to accept it—that did not deter her from being his friend and ally. His mind refused to forget how desperate and desolate his first few days in new London had been. From sleeping in the park to considering asking for food to the necessity of relieving himself in public: he had never dreamt of such lowliness. While not particularly religious, he did remember the story of Job and thought he could now identify with such a pathetic character. And yet, even as Job had suffered, he did not remain low in spirits. Likewise, Darcy needed to find hope that he would return to his home and rightful place in history, or at the very least, find his place here.

"At least there is still Pemberley," he mused while once more gazing around his room. Sighing he returned to Georgie's journal, once again hopeful that he would read of his return and some possible explanation for his misadventure.

 _15 October 1814_

 _Fitzwilliam is gone and I am beside myself with worry! I knew that something was amiss! My only hope is that he has not done something brash and impulsive. Oh, but he always leaves a note or informs someone of his whereabouts. Not even cousin Henry—without doubt his only complete confidant—knows where he is. Though Henry and Reginald have both tried to reassure me that Fitzwilliam will show himself within the week, I cannot dismiss the fear that I shall never see him again._

At the very least, Darcy was once again reassured that he was not dreaming and now had proof to show Elizabeth that he was not out of his mind. He was just mysteriously transported to a park bench in the future. He started to flip through the entries again, stopping in December. The first couple of entries he read contained no mention of his name, so he continued to search until he saw entry for Christmas. Georgiana and her family intended to spend Christmas with him at Pemberley this year.

 _25 December 1814_

 _Christmas at Pemberley, it used to inspire such magic and happy nostalgia, but without Fitzwilliam the entire house and its Yuletide traditions seem hollow and lifeless. I begged Reginald to let us keep our original plans and journey here, now I don't know why I was so anxious to feel such despondency. Where can he be? After two months of silence I am beginning to lose hope, even Reginald and Henry of ceased trying to reassure me. Henry has searched for him at every port and club in England with no success. Reginald has even asked some of his contacts on the Continent for any sign or rumor of my brother. How could leave me, leave us and, most especially, Pemberley. I fear what will happen to this place without him. No! I must not lose hope. I refuse to believe the worst and will, instead, focus on wondrous year I have experienced and anticipate all that next year may supply. I thank the heavens for my husband and son. They distract me from my worry and grief and remind me that I still have a future worth living for._

 _Fitzwilliam, wherever you are, I pray that you are safe and that you will one day explain to me why you left and where you went. Be well, my dearest brother._

"Good heavens, two months!" he exclaimed, truly alarmed now. He had always assumed that whatever force pulled him to the future would return him where he rightfully belonged.

"I cannot stay here!" he cried while turning pages in a panicked frenzy, only deciding to stop until he reached his birthday or Christmas: times of the year he was sure to be thought upon by his sister. October and December of 1815 were the same and could be best described as eulogies. October and December of 1816 gave him no solace. He was nearing the end of Georgie's journal and hoped read something of good report before he searched for another journal.

 _14 October 1817_

 _Reginald spoke with his solicitor today after I reluctantly agreed that it was time to move on. Fitzwilliam is not coming home and our family's legacy must be preserved. It was advised that we officially state that Fitzwilliam has died so the direction in his will can be enacted. Words cannot express how it breaks my heart to let him go. I will admit it nowhere else but within the privacy of these pages that I hope he will still return to us. If not, I continue to imagine him in some beautiful land, smiling at his beautiful wife and children that surround him. As my fantasy cannot be the reality, I must continue to live as though he is dead. Within his will, dear Fitzwilliam specified that Pemberley should be given to me if he died without children. Through me and my children, Pemberley will always be home to the Darcys. Reginald and I have already decided that Pemberley will be William's inheritance and, as requested, when he reaches his majority or truly begins to manage the estate, he will change his name to Darcy. My heart aches for my brother, but I admit to owning a no small amount of pride in my sons. I know that they will prove to be kind and caring masters, just like their father and uncle before them._

Darcy slowly let his hands drop to his lap as he felt life and strength slowly leave his body; he didn't even notice Georgie's journal fall to the floor in his daze.

"Dead," he murmured. "I never make it home. My life is lost to me." Darcy continued to stare in front of him, his only movement was his blinking eyes as his mind seemed incapable of wrapping around and comprehending his new, inescapable truth: he was stuck in the future. He barely registered tears forming and falling from his eyes as he tried to accept the fact that everyone and everything he knew was dead and gone: Georgie, Henry, Georgie's son, Anne, Mrs. Reynolds, all of the tenants who worked beside him during his short stead as master, his friends from school, and perhaps most frighteningly, the entire social order he was raised to live in. Darcy did not consider himself a snob, but he knew how to live in the 19th century. A few days in 2015 made it abundantly clear that he did not know how to live amongst people in this day and age—not that he was ever adept at managing social situations in the past, he though ruefully.

Once again, despair and frustration he felt all week was creeping in and taking hold of this thoughts and emotions. It was in this state that Liz found him. She had knocked and called his name, but received no answer. Darcy didn't turn to look at her until he felt her light touch on his shoulder.

"William," she asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

Liz was about to shake him and ask him again, until he said, "I am dead. I cannot go home."

"I don't understand," she replied.

"Georgie waited three years before declaring my death. I never returned home. I am trapped here," he explained, his voice heavy and hollow.

"Maybe it takes you longer to figure out a way to return. We can keep searching Darcy Corner tomorrow or we can ask Margie for some kind of family tree. She knows everything there is to know about the Darcys and should be able to help us."

Receiving no response, she tried once more to coax him out of the depression spiral she was sure he was sliding down.

"Don't worry, William. We'll find answers for you."

His soulful eyes looked to her, looking for hope he wasn't able to find within himself. When he slowly nodded and closed his eyes, Liz persuaded him to go to bed and try to sleep. Darcy was so lost inside his own mind that he didn't object to her pulling off his shoes and tucking him into bed.

Before she closed the door, she wished him a good night and crossed the hall to her room. As she felt her consciousness begin to fade, she silently prayed that they would hear some good news from Margie tomorrow.

 **Author's Note:** Well, this was a depressing chapter, but necessary. I will never stop thanking those of you who have taken a chance on this modern story and have sent me your reviews and thoughts. I especially want to thank those who spot errors and seek to correct me. I truly appreciate the feedback and, when warranted, I will change the story. There was one comment about the status of Liz's job that makes me want to provide a bit of backstory. In my story, Liz is 28 and has completed her education, as well as residency and required "internship" to be an OB/GYN. As I've laid out the timeline, Liz took sometime after completing her internship in London to have her baby. This sabbatical turned into bereavement when Charles died. She took more time than what may be considered normal, but now feels ready to join the practice where she interned and replace the doctor who was her mentor or sorts. Let me know if it would help if I posted some of this backstory for you to refer to or if some type of recap would help you before each chapter. I admit that I have to reread chapter as I write each new chapter-it's too hard to keep real life and this fictional life in working order. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Liz awoke the next day refreshed, until she remembered tucking William in the night before.

 _Poor William_ , she thought while falling back into bed to stare at the ceiling, hoping to find some secret recipe to heal his hurt and help him move beyond this understandably huge setback. Unable to find direction in the beautifully coffered ceiling, she rose to go for a walk.

Liz had fond memories of Pemberley's gardens, especially the secluded areas, thanks to Charles. Without knowing where her feet were taking her, she wandered toward the old oak at the edge of the manicured gardens. Of course, an oak tree on Pemberley's land was beautifully shaped with a broad base and a quaint wooden bench underneath to act as a sentinel. This tree, more than any others in the vast park, reminded her home. Those oaks were gnarled and sprawling, inherently wild and refusing to be manicured. The tree that inspired Liz the most was appropriately named Angel Oak. Her branches were strong and stable, though their growth pattern made them seem so alive, as if they were reaching toward something or someone. Liz liked to believe that these wild oaks, like Angel Oak, were constantly looking for connections. Living things aren't meant to be alone. Why wouldn't Angel Oak be searching for a kindred spirit who understood what they had seen and viewed the world through the same soul?

Liz visited Angel Oak Park a few times with her family. She was always amazed by the life that oak had had—it was estimated to be 1,500 years old. If it could talk, what stories could it tell? What tenets would it live by? Liz had always felt wiser, more serene, after sitting under Angel Oak's broad canopy and she sincerely hoped for the same experience under Pemberley's manicured version.

Certainly, William's position was unexplored territory. They would not be able to find a self-help book to guide him through this. She didn't want to explore the option of repeating his time traveling experience. Even if she were to find a magical cognac that would send him back two centuries, she was sure it would cost more than she was willing to spend. How does one even cope with the fact that everything you knew no longer exists and everyone you love no longer lives? She could relate on a very microscopic level. Her family died, under circumstances she didn't want to dwell on, ten years ago. She moved to London with Charles and, while very similar to the States, could be seen as foreign to many Americans. Even now, Liz was sure she stood out like a sore thumb with her penchant for firearms and brazen approach to conflict. To cope with both of these changes, Liz learned to accept that this was her new reality. It was no use comparing what was to what is or imagine how things would have been different. She learned to live and adjust to the present so as to avoid dwelling on the uncomfortable and painful might-have-beens. William seemed stalwart enough. He might be able to close off his mind to certain memories and focus on the reality. Within the sanctuary of the old oak, Liz could freely admit that this approach may not be the healthiest, but it worked and it allowed her—and would hopefully allow William—to continue to live.

The next hurdle was to stay occupied. When her family died, Liz had school to keep her busy. When Charles died, her release was Genny. What could William do? _He could be my au pair_ , she laughingly thought. But William was a Darcy and he wouldn't be content with the trials and tribulations of a toddler that wasn't his. As a Darcy, William was focused on family, his legacy, duty, and Pemberley.

Pemberley. He could stay here at Pemberley and work with Margie. Margie mentioned retiring soon and trying to find a replacement. Who better than a true master of Pemberley? William would once again be the protector of his family's legacy. As the idea started to unfurl, the more hopeful and excited Liz became. Making her way back to the kitchen, Liz was sure she'd be able to help William cope with his new life.

Darcy could not remember a night when he had slept more poorly. His thoughts were repetitive and centered around the fact that he was stuck in a time he didn't understand and was wholly unequipped to live in. He was alone in every sense of the word. He was homeless, without occupation, without funds, and for the first time in his adult life, completely out of control.

He walked to windows that led to a balcony, determining whether to go for a ride or wander the woods for a few hours. He noticed Liz walking leisurely toward the old oak at the edge of the estate's garden. That oak had always been Darcy's favorite. When Georgiana was born, he ordered a bench built beneath its branches to celebrate her long-awaited birth. Though Darcy wasn't supposed to know, he saw his parents' suffering each time a pregnancy failed to produce a living child. He hoped that memorializing her birth underneath a tree known for its strength and longevity would somehow bless his new sister. Darcy happily realized that his boyhood wish came true. Georgiana's birth was a miracle; it felt like the entire county celebrated for nigh on two months. When Georgiana was old enough to walk, she'd beg Darcy to take her to "her" tree. As they grew older, they would discuss anything and everything neither felt confident addressing with their father.

Instead of joining her under the oak, Darcy just watched. He saw her stare up at the branches, slowly cross and swing her legs, and then bow her head as if in prayer. Not for the first time, Darcy was mesmerized by her. Her body was lithe, but seemed so strong. She exuded confidence and kindness in a way that completely entranced him. Without a doubt he found her attractive. She had thick, deep brown hair that seemed a bit unruly and somehow incredibly soft. Her skin may be fair during the winter months, but the summer heat had gently tanned it, enhancing its vibrancy. Aside from the physical, it was the intelligence and compassion in her bright eyes that continued to draw him in. She simply glowed. The more he contemplated her fine features, the more he could admit that it wasn't merely gratitude which fueled his admiration. She was quickly becoming one of his closest friends—not that she had much in the way of competition. Even if Henry were here, he couldn't imagine relying on his judgement as much as Darcy was beginning to rely on Elizabeth's. She had the remarkable ability of making him forget his troubles and enjoying the moment. _If I am never to return home_ , he mused, _I shall not repine the chance to know and be with her._

He was interrupted by his pleasant thoughts by Elizabeth's abrupt change in posture. He saw her back straighten as she moved to stand and practically march back toward the estate.

"She is a woman walking with purpose and I fear that purpose is me," he whispered to his empty room. "I'd rather greet my fate than wait for it to find me. Indeed, I believe the search will only fuel her passion."

With a resigned sigh, Darcy changed his clothes and washed his face before going to meet Elizabeth. He desperately needed coffee, so he headed in the direction of the kitchen hoping that Elizabeth had heard his silent prayer.

Before he could take a single step into kitchen, however, he found a mug of coffee in his hands and felt Elizabeth's hands on his back and arm guiding him toward a stool at the breakfast bar.

"Drink and I'll explain," she commanded. "You look terrible by the way."

Darcy could only muster a noncommittal nod, not wanting discuss the obvious.

"I've been thinking about you, William. Admittedly, you are in a tough spot and facing a very, um,. But, unique circumstances aside, I honestly think that the best way for you to deal with your situation—especially your grief—is to keep moving. I had initially thought it would be a good idea to lock ourselves in the library for a few hours and dig up as much history and information on the Darcy family over the last 200 years, but then that's all I'm afraid we'll find: information but no solutions. We need to keep you active."

"And how do you propose we do that. I'm of no use to anybody in this century. I have no money, no home, and no personal belongings. All I can even hope to claim once belonged to your late husband and can't live off of your charity."

"I don't expect you to. You are a Darcy through and through which means that you have a sizeable ego and a stubborn streak in your possession."

Darcy tried to look offended by her blunt assessment, but had to concede that she was right. Being master of Pemberley meant that he was responsible for the welfare of hundreds of people and thousands of pounds. The fact that he was able to manage it all without any assistance from anyone not in his employ made him feel extremely proud. Stubbornness, he knew, has always been a Darcy trait. It had always served him well as it forced him to learn new skills in order to manage problems and face challenges on his own, which is why his new situation was so unpalatable.

"What did you have mind, then? I claim ignorance, madam, and hope you can conceive of a better idea than trying to reenact the last night I spent in the 19th century. I believe it would be near impossible to find the cognac Henry had given me."

Liz took a deep breath before continuing, "William, I don't think you'll be able to go back. Your sister's journal was clear. You disappeared and now you're here. As hard as it is to accept, you will have to eventually learn how to face that truth and live with it. I sincerely believe it would be a waste of time and a trial on your emotional well-being to try to find your way back to 1814."

Darcy's shoulders sagged as he drank his coffee and listened to Elizabeth repeat what he had already concluded earlier this morning. "I know you are right, Elizabeth, but I find that I am unable to forget the past as they have forgotten me."

Liz watched him as he swirled his coffee in his mug, his posture conveying his fatigue and hopelessness. The longer she watched him, the more certain she became that her plan was what was necessary to help him adjust.

"William," she said gently, regaining his attention. "I don't think they forgot you, but they had to learn how to live their lives without you in it—just as you will need to do—which brings me to my proposal. It's obvious you can't be in the city, at least not yet, and you are missing a lot of the necessary documentation and skills to find any useful employment. I believe that we need to keep you in a safe and secluded place, at least until we can get all of the essential 21st century items you'll need to move around more freely. I think you should stay here. Resume your post as the master of Pemberley."

Darcy had to admit that the idea had merit. He could think of no earthly balm stronger than the fields and buildings of Pemberley. Although he hadn't toured the entire estate, he intuitively knew that it must have changed. The skills he had learned from his father and steward would not help him now. As he thought of the daunting task of relearning what it meant to be master, Elizabeth snapped her fingers inches from his face.

"Don't do that. I already see you analyzing the pros and cons of what I just said and I've already figured it out for you; we just need to get Margie on board. I told you that she knows everything there is to know about the Darcys and Pemberley. She wants to retire soon and has been looking for someone to replace her. You could work with Margie for a few months, she can show you the ropes, and teach you all you need to know about managing Pemberley."

"I could manage Pemberley," he murmured.

"Yes! Why aren't you more happy?" she asked.

"I suppose I'm just trying to understand my role. Would I be Pemberley's steward?"

"I guess. You'll be more of a manager with all of the responsibility and none of the liability."

Darcy's frown continued to deepen as he thought on his reduced circumstances. He had spent years preparing to be master and had successfully overseen the management of the estate for seven years. Once again, his new reality settled around him, making him fume at the injustice. The years of education he had received at Eton and Cambridge meant nothing. His upbringing as a gentlemen meant nothing. And Elizabeth expected him to rejoice in the face of this _opportunity_?

"I suppose it is the best I can hope for. I thank you for the consideration," he responded though tight, thin lips. "Where are you going? Back to London?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Darcy, but a little gratitude wouldn't be unwelcome. I'm offering you a home and a way to earn your living so you aren't dependent on the charity of others because I am becoming less inclined to give you any more of mine. If it weren't for me, you'd still be in that park begging for food and peeing in alleyways."

"I'll beg your pardon. A lady has no reason to speak that way!"

"And a gentleman has no reason to behave like a spoiled brat! You have picked the short straw—there's no sugar-coating what's happened to you—but you can't decide what will and will not happen to you in life. The only control you have is whether or not you will face what's dumped on your front door. Or, you can continue to moan and wax poetic on your grief. I've got news for you buddy, the grief never goes away. You either learn to live with it or you let it consume you. By offering you the position as Pemberley's manager, I was hoping to give you—I don't know—a path to a new life. Take it or don't, I don't really care. I'm going back to London tomorrow morning and start living my life again. There's a little girl that needs me a lot more than the grown man-child in front of me."

Liz couldn't stand looking at him anymore. He looked shocked and affronted. _Good_. She could understand his hesitancy, but not his anger.

"Look," she continued softly, staring at the counter, "you are qualified to manage Pemberley and Margie will soon see that you are the only man for the job. If you're truly a Darcy, being on this land will heal you. Don't be afraid of failing, managing this estate is in your blood."

"I'm not afraid," he snapped.

"Then your anger is misdirected and I don't know who you can justifiably blame for everything you've lost. God, maybe, but that never works out."

With nothing left to say, they both focused on their coffee. Darcy was ruminating over her words. Liz was hoping that he would accept so she didn't have to drop him somewhere in England. She may threaten to do it, but her conscience would never allow her to see it through. Liz felt tied to him somehow and responsible for his well-being.

"Please, William," she begged, reaching out to grasp his hand. "You'll be fine. Margie is great and I am just a phone call away, just as soon as I teach you how to use a phone."

Her touch left him undone. He looked from their clasped hands to her dark, hopeful, annoyingly persuasive eyes and sighed, "I will accept." She beamed in response and gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

"You won't regret this! C'mon. Finish your coffee and let's go wait for Margie."

"What will we tell her? That I am an author, but have recently decided to take on estate management?"

Liz frowned while sipping from her mug, thinking over the possible repercussions of telling Margie the truth or another lie. "I think we should tell her the truth."

"Will she believe us?"

"She may not at first, but like I said, she knows everything there is to know about your family and will eventually believe your story. The sooner she does, the sooner she can overlook all of your regency awkwardness."

"Yes, well, I suppose I should start learning how to adjust."

"One step at a time, my friend. Use the next few months to get reacquainted with the estate. You can ignore everything that's changed and focus on the things that haven't, like the main house, the woods, the trails, and I'm sure there are hiding places all over the estate that have been forgotten over the years. You can be you, William, without worrying about fitting in. There is only a handful of staff that you'll need to interact with and Margie can help you decide what to tell them."

"I will admit that the idea of hiding at Pemberley has always appealed to me. How long will my seclusion last?" he asked. While always eager to retire in the country, especially after months of excruciatingly tedious social events, and not immune to solitude, he felt uneasy with the prospect of being separated from Elizabeth. She was literally the only person he knew and was reluctant to lose his tether.

"Oh, please. You're not being banished or held prisoner. If you'd like to explore the world beyond the boundaries of Pemberley, be my guest. I just thought you'd be more comfortable here. You can find your sea legs, you know. Watch a few movies. Read a few books. Surf the net—trust me, once you figure out what that is you're gonna love it."

"I truly have no choice but to trust you," he replied as he set down his coffee mug. "Do I look presentable? I suppose I must look to my advantage before meeting my employer."

"Technically, the reigning Darcys are your employers. Think of Margie as your Jedi master or sensei."

"My what?"

"Remember the terms and google them later. Also, remember the term google and ask me about it later. I think Margie just pulled up."

"Wait! How do I look?"

Liz looked him up and down, finishing at his shoes as if taking his request seriously, though she had to admit that while his eyes looked tired, the man could make anything look chic. "You'll do. Now let's go."

Liz and Darcy had spent the better part of two hours telling Margie about their first meeting, their trip to Pemberley, and their discoveries along the way. Margie hadn't asked a single question. She sat languidly behind her desk, giving each speaker her rapt attention. She didn't flinch, raise her eyebrows, clear her throat, or give any indication that she accepted their story as truth.

"I think William would be the best candidate for your successor," Liz stated at the end. This caused Margie to widen her eyes.

"Who said that I need a replacement?" she asked calmly.

Liz responded with a half smirk and twinkle in her eye, "You're not fooling anyone, Margie. You've reduced your hours and you've been subtly interviewing the guides and local historians."

Margie could only grin and bow her head.

"I know that we've weaved an incredible tale for you, but I promise that it is true. William belongs at Pemberley and he already loves this place and its history as much as you. All he needs to know is how to run the estate in this century and I know of no better teacher than you."

"I would be honored, madam, if you would reacquaint me with my home," Darcy added.

"You may stay, William, and I will agree to working with you on a trial basis," Margie countered. Darcy beamed in response, causing Margie and Liz to gape a little.

"So you believe us," Liz asked.

"It doesn't matter if I do or not," she answered. "I care about this estate and the land attached to it. I've dedicated my life to preserving its history and if this boy can do the same then I would be happy to train him. Now, William, would you mind stepping out a moment while I speak with Dr. Darcy?"

"Of course," he said, standing and bowing before leaving the room.

When he shut the door, Margie leaned her elbows on her desk, peering over her glasses at Liz before asking, "How are you doing, my dear?"

"I'm fine," Liz responded automatically. "At least I will be once William is settled and I can get back to London to pick up Genny."

"You should spend more time here to rest and regain your footing. I don't think it's healthy to be in the city all the time with its paparazzi, traffic, and expensive produce."

"I know you think Pemberley is England's Shangri-La, but I love the city. I surrounded by people and commotion. Plus, that's where my job is and my friends and Genny's nanny. I promise to bring Genny here more often when she's a little older, you know, to get to know her Darcy roots."

"You're a Darcy, too, dear. Perhaps more than you know."

"That's a bit too cryptic for a Friday morning and you know it." Liz stood and walked around the desk to give Margie a hug. Though she had only met the woman a few times, Liz adored her. She made everyone feel like the most important person in the world and had been a silent gatekeeper when Charles died. She made Liz enough meals to last two weeks and was miraculously able to dispel reporters and paparazzi that camped outside her building.

"I'll only admit this to you," Margie said to Liz's retreating back, "but Charles was my favorite."

"Really? And why is that?" she asked.

"Charles was the younger brother and was able to avoid a lot of the limelight. It also gave him the freedom to follow his heart, which he did by going to school instead of living off of the estate and his family's name and by marrying you. He loved you so much and was so excited to bring you home. Before he brought you here for your honeymoon, he asked me to make this place shine because he said that you had lost your home and he was happy to give this one to you. He was such a dear boy."

While Margie looked through her desk drawers for a tissue, Liz walked back to kiss her lightly on her forehead. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'll bring Genny back here soon. Maybe I'll cook a good ol' American Thanksgiving dinner for you and Richard."

"That would be wonderful. I'll put it on my calendar so you can't forget."

"Sounds like a plan," Liz said smiling. "Thank you, again, for taking William on. I know he's perfect. For the job, I mean."

"Yes, I'm sure that's what you meant," Margie replied with a smirk and a twinkling eye.

 **A/N: I hope this was worth the wait. Life demanded a lot of my attention and I got lost reading another P &P variation book. I'll never stop thanking my readers and reviewers. Y'all keep me honest and motivate me to continue writing this story. **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

After Liz's interview with Margie, she found William aimlessly walking through the gardens and hurried to catch him.

When she reached his side, he casually remarked, "I cannot recall the last time that wandered through these gardens. Whenever out of doors, I was always headed to the stables, a tenant farm, on the road to Lambton, or some other destination. I daresay that it feels wonderful to have no destination."

Liz smiled as she examined his face, now finally relaxed after days of confusion and despondency. "Well, William, I'm sorry to say that this feeling won't last long. Margie may look old and frail, but keeps this house in ship shape with the efficiency of a Navy Seal commander. She'll be relentless in your training to make sure you don't run Pemberley to the ground," she said while gently elbowing him in the side.

"I look forward to my lessons," he replied.

The continued quietly for a few minutes more before William spoke again, "I don't know that I've thanked you for all you've done and I apologize for the omission. I wish to thank you now for inviting me into your home, returning Pemberley to me, and for believing me. I'm embarrassed to know that of all the words I know, I can't find any that can fully express my gratitude and appreciation."

Liz blushed at the praise and quietly replied, "You are very welcome. In the future, if you wish to thank someone in this century, a simple 'thank you' will suffice. We're not used to prolonged speeches and multisyllabic words in this day and age."

"I shall add it to my growing list of modern faux pas," he said good-humoredly.

They walked in companionable silence back toward the estate house and had just entered the doors before Darcy had the courage to ask, "When do you leave?"

"In an hour or two, I hope. Genny is coming home this afternoon and I can't wait to see her."

"And when will you be back?"

"Oh, um, I'm not quite sure. I think I just promised Margie that I'd be back for Thanksgiving at the end of November. I doubt I'll make it up here before then."

"That's nearly three and half months."

"Don't look so sad. Listen, you'll be too busy with Margie and getting reacquainted with Pemberley to even miss me."

Darcy couldn't respond, to do so would reveal more of his attachment to her than he was ready to admit. Instead he gave her a short bow and wished her a pleasant trip and a happy reunion with her daughter. He held open her car door as she climbed in. She stopped him from shutting the door and looked at him with her expressive, beautiful eyes.

"Margie has my number and email if you need anything. Please try to relax and assimilate a little," she added with a grin before closing the door, starting the engine, and driving away. Darcy stood in the drive until her car disappeared from sight. Sighing and straightening his shoulders, he walked inside to find Margie and begin his estate lessons.

* * *

Liz made it back to London in good time and had an hour to spare before Eleanor arrived with Genny. She wandered into her closet and looked at Charles's clothes. Aside from Genny, they were the last physical reminder she had of him in the apartment. After he died, she immediately packed away pictures of him and his ridiculous knick-knacks he had spread throughout the space, but she couldn't touch his clothes. She knew that if she didn't keep something of his around, then her heart would freeze and she wouldn't be able to care for Genny. She needed to be reminded of his life, so she wouldn't be tempted to forget him.

Now, however, she felt ready to pack them up and she knew just where to send them.

* * *

Genny came home like a ball of fire. Once she entered the apartment, she nearly flew out of her grandmother's arms. As soon as she hit the ground, she crawled as fast as her little arms and legs could go into her mother's arms.

"Mama, mama, mama, mama!" she squealed while slapping Liz's face.

"Hello, my little monkey! Mama is so happy to see you," she said while squeezing her daughter's tiny body to her chest. If not for Genny playfully slapping her face, Liz would have had tears running down her cheeks. She hadn't realized until minutes before Genny came home how much she had missed her. This little imp held Liz's happiness in her chubby hands, and Liz was more than willing to entrust her with such power. Now that she was home, Liz's world felt whole and complete.

Lady Eleanor watched the sweet reunion from the hallway, patiently waiting for Liz to acknowledge her presence. After a few more kisses and squeezes, Liz released Genny and turned to her mother-in-law, "How was she? I hope she wasn't too much trouble."

"Not at all," she reassured her, "Genny was nearly a perfect angel. We were delighted to have her."

Liz smiled in response and made her way to the kitchen, gesturing the countess to follow. "Can I get you something to drink? A cup of tea or coffee?"

"No, thank you, I won't stay long. I know you have a lot to do before you go back to work."

Liz could hear Eleanor's fingers rapidly tapping her purse and braced herself against a potential argument.

"Yes?" she asked, sitting at the counter to face the great lady.

"I have been delighted that you decided to stay in England and Genny is such joy and reminds me so much of Charles when he was young. So cheerful and energetic. I remember, when he was about Genny's age, he would crawl into the bathrooms and try to join whoever was in the shower. He nearly gave his grandfather a heart attack!" Eleanor began to chuckle as she stared at a spot somewhere behind Liz, completely lost in her memories of her son. Liz patiently waited for her to come to the point.

Slowly drifting back the present, she continued, "I was hoping I could convince you to join me at a few events this year. Now, before you object," she said holding her hand up, "I need you to understand that these events aren't just publicity stunts. Being a Darcy means something in this country and I'm afraid there aren't very many of us left."

Something in her tone and in her eyes made Liz stop her immediate objection. Her participation in society, or lack thereof, had been a constant argument between the two. Charles's death put a stop to her mother-in-law's incessant badgering as she knew Liz would need time to regroup and put a life together without her husband. But this time was different.

"Eleanor, what's wrong?" Liz asked.

Eleanor hesitated and took a deep breath before blurting out, "Geoffrey has cancer."

"What?" Liz asked in disbelief. Geoffrey was Charles's older brother. He was young and energetic, like Charles, but was too fond of drink and easy women. The two had never been close and he was one reason why Liz didn't like to be seen in public with the Darcys. It only took one photo and one salacious headline to ruin the peace she had finally found since moving to London. Most of his behavior had been hushed up by his parents to protect the family's image. It was both ironic and unsettling that such a vivacious man could be brought so low, further proof that money and status didn't make one invincible.

"He has cancer," Eleanor repeated more softly, her eyes brightening as the truth of her situation became more real each time she discussed it. "Acute leukemia to be exact. Initial tests show that it's aggressive and we may not be able to stop it. Elizabeth, how can I be expected to bury both of my sons? Parents are not meant to outlive their children, surely you understand this now."

"Of course," she replied numbly. She gingerly reached out to hold Eleanor's hand. Liz had never seen her so overcome. Even at Charles's funeral, she was able to cry and grieve with the dignity of a queen. The woman before her now was mad heartache, desperately cleaving to Liz's hand.

"This is why I need you with me. After David and I die, you and Genny will be the only Darcys left. Please, I'm asking you as a mother to carry on our legacy."

"Of course," she quietly repeated.

"Thank you," Eleanor replied, this time with a tentative smile. "We haven't made Geoffrey's illness public and I don't think we will until we can't keep it a secret anymore."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No, no. If you'll be at my side, that is all the support we need right now. And thank you, again, for letting us take Genny for the week. She is such an angel and just the tonic we needed."

Eleanor tug in her purse to find a tissue and gently dabbed her tears from her face so as not to ruin her perfectly applied makeup. She stood and gave Liz a gentle, yet sincere, hug. "I'll call you when the first fundraiser is near."

"I'm looking forward to it," she replied dryly.

Liz walked her to the door and, when she left, she sank to the floor with her back against the door, listening to Genny play with her toys.

"Holy smokes, what a week."

* * *

Darcy's first day with Margie was a revelation. First, he was introduced and given a very brief tutorial on the computer. He couldn't believe the speed with which Margie was able to answer electronic letters of business, review the finances of the estate, and keep track of the all of Pemberley's employees and contractors. To her credit, Margie didn't become overly frustrated with Darcy's stupidity and wonder over the machine. For all of his ignorance, Margie sensed he had a sharp mind and would be able to quickly pick up the necessary skills for the job.

Next, Darcy was taken on a tour of the grounds in a delightful little golf cart. Much like blood to the body, Darcy felt his soul reinvigorate with the familiar sights and smells of the land. To his surprise, the park was still large. There were still gardens and crops that were used on the estate and sold in the surrounding towns, but it was no longer the main well needed to fill Pemberley's coffers. When Darcy asked about tenant farmers, Margie explained that Pemberley no longer leased land to other owners. Pemberley had become largely self-sustaining by hosting events, selling its minimal produce, and working with movie studios. Though still not sure what a movie was, Margie said she would play one for him this evening that featured Pemberley.

As they headed back to the main house, Darcy began asking questions about the family. He learned that the Earl and Countess of Derby were the current owners. They had two sons, Geoffrey and Charles. Geoffrey, unfortunately, was taken up by the fame and privilege granted by his name and wealth. She didn't see him much at Pemberley as he preferred to stay in London, at a beach, or wherever his latest fling took him. Charles, as the "baby", was his foil. While energetic and personable like his brother, Charles was kind and responsible. He worked hard and earned most of his own money, not wanting to get by on virtue of his name. His death was a shock to everyone. Margie tearfully described the weeks following his death and how difficult it was for Liz.

"You must understand," Margie explained, "Charles and Genny are her world. Her parents and sisters died when she was still a teenager. I think the poor girl thinks she's tainted or bad luck or something. Charles told me what he could of her past before he brought her to Pemberley. 'I want to give her a home that she can always come back to,' he had said. This was first time I had seen her in months and I can honestly say she is on the mend. If only she could find someone to make her whole again."

Darcy followed the scenery the rest of the way to Pemberley. The rest of the day was spent on a tour of the main house, most of which he didn't need to see since it seemed like all of the rooms maintained their original function. Those that were used for events and films maintained an older, though Darcy would have called it fashionable, style. The rooms reserved for the family boasted rich, new furnishings. Before leaving for the night, Margie got him set up in a theater room with a period movie filmed at Pemberley. She said that there were plenty of meals in the fridge and all he needed to do was "pop it in the microwave." Darcy was, of course, confused by her instructions, but was incredibly tired of asking simple and, he could only assume, idiotic questions.

After a few turns of failure, Darcy managed to make the microwave do his bidding. He made his way to the theater room and began the movie. What he saw before him was breathtaking and laughable. He had never seen a production so vivid and engaging, but for people today to believe that's how his world looked was humorous. _Well, it's not as if we had photos to depict the everyday. Our paintings always portrayed the ideal and idyllic, not the realistic._ Pemberley, however, was absolutely majestic. He felt pride swell in his breast to see his home shown to such an advantage.

Once he finished the movie, he made his way to his bedchamber, remarking on the silence as his feet softly padded down the carpeted hallway. Even when dozens of servants lived here it was quiet, but not this quiet. He truly felt the weight of his solitude upon entering his chamber. Turning on the light to dispel the darkness and his brooding thoughts, he reviewed his time spent with Margie. She reminded him so much of Mrs. Reynolds—a fierce, loving, and industrious caretaker of Pemberley and anything that touched it. She was definitely knowledgeable and he was anxious to learn all he could from her. Though no longer a child, it was thrilling to know that he could still learn new things as an adult. Once again, and most definitely not for the last time, he was grateful to have met Elizabeth on that fateful afternoon. She had restored his home to him, even when he thought it had all been forsaken.

Thinking on her brief history shamed him. He was with her several days and had not truly tried to learn more about her, so desperate was he to regain all he had lost. When had he become so self-absorbed? He was known through all of Derbyshire as being a fair and liberal master, but he also knew that taking care of the land and its people was his right and duty. He couldn't imagine freely extending the same mercy and care to another as Elizabeth had given him.

Knowing that she had lost her family made him feel more connected to her and gave added weight to her wise counsel. She knew how to help him because she had experienced the same kind of loss. He hoped that her reunion with her daughter helped to fill the void she must inevitably feel. He then wished that he could be with them. They were technically family and Darcy, alone in his mansion, craved some kind of personal connection. Elizabeth was so easy to talk to. She would know what to say or how to distract from his incessant brooding and help him focus on the present.

With a heavy, tired sigh he readied himself for bed.

* * *

A week had passed since Liz's homecoming and conversation with Lady Eleanor. She and Genny settled into a comfortable routine. Liz couldn't remember the last time she had felt so happy and carefree. While she missed Genny fiercely during the day, going back to work was exactly what she needed. Her days were now full of patient visits, giggling with Genny, walks around the park, and having grown-up talks with the other doctors and nurses that didn't revolve around the death of her husband and society events.

She was grateful for that her mentor and residency head thought of her as he retired, leaving his patient list and recommending her to fill his position at the office. Liz was able to pick up where she left off a year ago and, for a few hours at least, completely erase the memory of the last year.

More than a few times a day, her thoughts would drift to William and how he was progressing. She usually thought of him on her walks with Genny around Regent's Park. Whenever they'd pass his bench, she was tempted to call Margie for a status report. When she arrived home, she packed up most of Charles's clothes to send to William, but she knew that he would more to assimilate than just clothing. On Saturday, she decided it wouldn't be unusual to ring Margie—it had been a week after all—and finally did so.

Margie said that he was doing well. William was sharp and was learning quickly. They had toured the estate, the main house, gone over the house accounts and the autumn/winter event schedule. William joined a couple house tours and volunteered to run a couple of them next week. Margie was surprised at the amount of detail and history he knew about the place, attributing it to his excellent memory and supplementary study. It was clear from the call that Margie still wasn't a time-travelling believer. As long as she didn't kick William out of the house and was willing to train him, Liz couldn't care less about whether or not she believed he was from the 19th century.

"William asks after you," she casually mentioned.

"Does he?"

"Of course. After he received your package, which was extremely generous, he has wanted to extend, and I quote, 'his heartfelt thanks and appreciation.'"

"Why can't the man just say 'thank you' without all of the pomp and presentation?"

"Well, dear, I do believe he's sincere. Since then he's asked me if you called or if I had heard from you. If you ask me, I think he's a bit lonely. During the day, he only really talks to me and then he's practically alone in this huge place at night. I think it would do him a world of good to hear from you every once and a while."

Liz immediately felt guilty for ignoring him all week. She'd wanted him to settle in and get used to his new life and thought that giving him time and space was what he needed. While it was what she would have needed had the situations been reversed, William clearly needed a friend.

"Does he have my phone number?" Liz asked.

"He's never asked for it and I don't think it ever crossed his mind. He's an odd duck, your William."

"I know he his, but he's not mine. We're just friends, Margie."

"Of course you are." Liz could only respond with an exaggerated eye roll she was grateful Margie couldn't see.

"I'll pass along your number. I guess I'll have to show him how to use the phone. It's like that poor boy was raised on a commune."

After ending the call, Liz decided that William needed a couple more gifts from her just to get him well and truly settled into life in modern-day England.

Liz knew he had received her package when she got a call from him around noon on the following Tuesday. Luckily, she was between appointments.

"Hello? Is this Elizabeth?"

"Yes, William, you called my phone. I'm the only one that will answer it."

"Quite right. I just, um, wanted to thank you, yet again, for your generous gifts. I'm not usually on the receiving end of such material generosity and I'm afraid I don't know how I can reciprocate."

"There's no need to reciprocate. It will be another week before you're paid and a phone and laptop are essential items to own in this day and age."

"Yes, well, I only really know how to use the telephone."

"Margie can show you," she laughingly replied. "And she'd be delighted to show you. She usually needs to call one of her grandkids when she's stuck, so I'm sure she'd be tickled to teach you a few things."

"Then I won't hesitate to seek her assistance."

"Tell me about Pemberley. How are you doing?"

"You'd have to ask Margie for a more objective report, but I believe I'm learning quickly. How the estate is managed has obviously changed, but in essentials nothing really has. There is still the land to be maintained—and there is much less to oversee now than when I was master—and there is still a staff to work with. While I was never expected to participate in the house tours, I've been delighted to do so now. The Darcys who succeeded me have done remarkably well in preserving the spirit of the home."

"I'm happy to hear that you feel at home."

"I do. Thank you for bringing me here and convincing Margie to let me live on the estate."

"You're very welcome." Liz looked at her phone as a message was coming through. "Oh, William, I have to go. One of my patients has gone into labor. We'll talk more tonight, okay? Gotta go. Bye."

William stared at his phone, astounded at its abrupt end. But she had said that they would talk tonight. He could feel a smile slowly spread across his face at the thought.

 **A/N: I know it has taken me forever to post, but life threw a few curve balls at me and I didn't want this chapter to billed with brooding and ruminations on the meaning of life. Thank you to those who continue to read and a special thanks to those who review. Y'all truly keep me inspired and determined to continue this story. It has already morphed into more than I could have imagined.**

 **Peace and love to you and yours!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Later that night, Liz quietly stumbled into her apartment to find Katie dozing on the sofa. Gently setting her bags and keys on the counter, she padded across the floor to wake her steadfast nanny.

"Katie," she called while gently shaking her shoulders. Liz called her name a few more times before she jolted awake.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"It's close to midnight. Thank you for staying so late. I hope I didn't mess up any of your plans.'

Katie rubbed her eyes and stretched before replying mid yawn, "It's not a problem. Genny's a gem and you know I charge time and a half," she added with a wink.

"I'm well aware. I'm on call next week, which means I'll need you on call next week. Are you free?"

"I should be, but I'll let you know if something comes up."

Liz thanked her again and walked her to the door. Katie really was a godsend. Kind and happy with just enough energy to keep up with her ever-mobile daughter, she was recommended by one of the nurses in her office and was relieved to find that she was also respectful of their privacy. She never asked personal questions and always kept the apartment clean. Liz truly couldn't ask for more.

She made her way down the hall to Genny's room, quietly peeking in to find her sleeping on her belly with her bum in the air. Liz smiled and shook her head while closing the door again. Though bone tired and knowing that her bed was the best option, she nonetheless wanted a little personal time before surrendering to sleep. Listening to the soft whirring of the microwave, Liz reviewed her day with satisfaction. She had delivered three children today. Each one entered the world the same way, but would be raised under incredibly different circumstances. One was born to two parents and would be the third of their brood. She had no doubt this child would be cared for and loved. Liz remembered with fondness her own childhood with her sisters and wondered if Genny would have any siblings. She always hoped for a big family. Her own family had been boisterous and energetic, so different from the quiet solitude she was now living. Shaking her head to change the direction of her thoughts, she thought of the other child born today. He was small, but had a powerful set of lungs. His mother was only sixteen, and in many ways was still a child herself. Liz clearly recalled her face when her son was born. Fear, anxiety, and joy played out in equal measure as she delivered and held her newborn. When she checked her patient before coming home, she seemed determined to keep her son and raise him on her own. Though a newly minted single parent herself, Liz knew that it was a road she wished she didn't have to navigate on her own and hoped the young girl would prove steady enough to provide a life for herself and her son. Her last delivery of the day was definitely the most trying. This patient was a nearing forty and came to the hospital experiencing labor pains, though her due date was still two months away. In the end, Liz needed to perform an emergency C-section. The baby girl was stabilized and in the NICU, while her mother was still recovering after heavy hemorrhaging.

The beep from the microwave snapped her out of her reverie. She deeply inhaled the artificial buttery smell and tried to clear her mind of patients' charts, hospital procedure, check-up requirements, and mental notes for tomorrow. She curled up on the sofa and faced her unobstructed view of Regent's Park. The city was so still at night, though cabs and pedestrians could occasionally be heard on the street below. Liz returned to her musings, thinking on her patients and the lives they might lead. She was always amazed at the randomness of birth. Each of the babies born today were conceived and brought into the world the same way, but the age, financial status, and mindset of their parents would determine the course of their lives. Not for the last time, she sent up a silent prayer for the welfare of these babies and hoped that she could raise her daughter well.

Looking back at the park, she realized she was more than halfway through her bag of popcorn and remembered she had promised to call William tonight. It was nearing one in the morning, so she sent him a text, giggling as she tried to imagine his reaction to an SMS.

Darcy would never admit to his feelings out loud, but he was nervously anticipating his call with Liz. Of all of the marvelous innovations he was exposed to, the mobile phone was quickly becoming his favorite. No more paying for express riders, waiting days, weeks, or months for a response, and being able to immediately hear the other's voice instead of just imaging it. He was also exhilarated by the thought of Liz calling him. In general, he thought too much propriety had been sacrificed over the years, but removing the necessity of paying a call during acceptable hours was convenient and satisfied his need for instant gratification.

He tried to calmly move through his nightly routine, but his phone was never out of arm's reach. He forced his jaw to slowly chew his food. He spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning the dishes. He quietly watched a program on the television, though if asked, he wouldn't have been able to tell you what his eyes were staring at for hours. He tried to fill in the time by walking the halls of Pemberley, pretending to catalog the paintings, trinkets, and other decorative items he passed all the while keeping his phone clasped in his hands behind his back. Darcy eventually settled into his room and tried mightily to read a book without peeking at his phone every few minutes. What kept her from calling? Did she forget about their call?

Finally abandoning every attempt to distract is anxious thoughts, he closed his book and tossed it to the end of the bed. _There's no harm in letting my thoughts wander while I wait_ , he mused. Raised as a gentleman, which included a reverence to the church and its teachings, he knew what was said about idle thoughts. But he couldn't keep his mind from returning to her. Notwithstanding the age or time difference, she was truly unlike any woman he had ever met. Every other woman he had known, with is sister being the obvious exception, was painfully vain, supercilious, haughty, vaunted by their own self-importance, and seemed so empty. They all bored him.

He vividly recalled his last birthday dinner. Georgie was right. He was lonely. His thoughts that night were decidedly maudlin. He had despaired of finding just one woman with whom it would not be a chore to talk to, let alone live with and raise children together. After every season since he reached his majority he had maintained hope that someday he would find someone to be his helpmeet and partner in life. Many of his acquaintance, he knew, didn't have such lofty aspirations. Connections. Wealth. Influence. Power. Those were the makings of a successful match. But he was fortunate to have been raised by doting and loving parents. Theirs was a love match as well as a socially successful one. After losing his mother when he was ten and five, and then his father, he vowed that he would fill Pemberley with the short lived joy he shared with them through his own family. If anyone knew of his desires he would have been mocked as a pitiful romantic. Everyone just assumed that his standards were too high. The more vicious of his peers assumed that he simply didn't like women. While not immune to beauty, he was never one to fall for physical appearances alone. He sought substance.

Then he met Elizabeth. Without a doubt she was beautiful. Light seemed to flow from her as if she held the power of Apollo caged within her. Her eyes were incredibly expressive. It must be their unique coloring that leant their uniqueness. They changed color from day to day. The day they met, they were a deep blue. Their first morning together, they seemed a light grey. While walking the grounds of Pemberley, warm bits of brown swirled with the existing blue. He could quite comfortably spend the better part of an hour studying her eyes. They inspired him to take up drawing again. He hoped this modern world could still supply him with charcoals and sturdy paper. The flimsy material that shot out of Margie's printer would never work.

Her hair would be difficult to copy. He could never classify it as unruly, but she clearly left its styling to nature. It was cut to her shoulders and its natural wave gave it a life and personality all its own. During his brief sojourn in London, he saw several bizarre and wild colors of hair. Elizabeth's natural brown was lovely with streaks of blonde throughout that he could only imagine was the product of copious hours out of doors. Her skin, likewise, was lightly bronzed and smooth. So smooth that he could almost imagine how soft her cheeks would be to the touch. _Idle thoughts, Darcy!_

Unfortunately, it didn't take a great leap to imagine what resided beneath her fresh, exquisite face. That blasted uniform she wore to ride her bicycle left nothing to the imagination. Suffice it to say that the exercise only served to enhance her appeal. _There. That was sufficiently gentlemanly._

Darcy was increasingly delighted to discover that Elizabeth was more than a beautiful face. She was kind, energetic, and compassionate. Though she only reached his shoulder, he could sense the power within that tiny woman. After Margie revealed portions of her past and all of the loss she had endured, he knew what strength was required to overcome such devastating setbacks. Along with the light that was quintessentially Elizabeth, Darcy knew that held within her the power to decide and navigate her future. The more he thought of her —which was quite often throughout the day—the more she inspired him. Darcy was never one to shy away from a challenge. His own dear father's untimely death demanded that he take up the mantle that was the Darcy name, heritage, and property with deliberation and stamina.

This sojourn through time had definitely unsettled him, but his time at Pemberley and Elizabeth's example was helping him to adapt and adjust to the unexpected and unexplainable turn that life had thrown at him.

"Great heavens! What was that?!" he exclaimed, feeling his bed vibrate underneath him. He turned toward the source of his unsettling and found a message light up on his mobile phone. It seemed to be from Elizabeth.

 _Are you up?_

"Yes. Hello?" he replied into the phone.

He heard nothing in response. He was less startled by the next message from Elizabeth.

 _Call me if you're awake._

He was embarrassed to see his hands shake a little as he unlocked the phone and found her number. _At least there is no one here to see my idiocy._

Darcy took a deep breath before he pressed his finger to Elizabeth's name.

"William, I'm surprised you're still awake," she said in answering.

"Yes, well, I couldn't sleep." He wasn't about to admit that he was waiting for her to call. His hand automatically moved to his neck to loosen the tie he no longer wore.

"I'm happy you're a bit of an insomniac. I'm sorry I had to hang up so quickly earlier. Babies always come when it is the least convenient."

"Indeed," Darcy lamely replied.

"Do you have experience with the unexpected arrival of babies, Mr. Darcy?" The thought of straitlaced and formal William in the middle of the chaos and miracle of birth made her chuckle. She imagined him being adamantly against touching any visceral material, immovably planted in the farthest corner of the room.

"Of course not," he replied with not a little shock. "I simply accept your judgment and experience."

"I was teasing, William."

Darcy was desperately searching for something to say. He'd been anticipating this call all night, how was it that he hadn't considered what he would say? He wasted hours pretending to read.

He remembered his shame earlier in the week when he realized that he hadn't tried to learn more about Elizabeth. He felt that he could adequately summarize her core values and traits, but he wanted to know more. He wanted to know it all.

"How was your first week at work?" he tentatively asked.

He was afraid she would only sigh in reply. "Work is just as I remember. There is the daily tedium and predictability of appointments, splattered with emergencies. Today was a bit more hectic than normal, but all of my patients and their babies should recover well and be able to return home in a few days."

Again, her thoughts drifted to the moment when each newborn would cry—the most heavenly sound in every delivery. Until that moment, a small part her always feared the worst. Liz absentmindedly ate her popcorn and nearly missed Darcy's next question.

"Is it difficult? Working in such an environment?"

"It can be. For the most part, it's extremely fulfilling. I get to see the very best of people: their hopes, their anxiety, their determination and perseverance in the face difficulty. Expecting a child has a way of amplifying what's good and strong in people. I love helping women realize that they are capable of more than they thought. Modern medicine eliminates a lot of the dangers that you may be accustomed to. Imaging technology makes it possible to see the child and anticipate major health issues before the child is even born."

"My mother lost several children before and after birth. I can't help but imagine how she would have fared if she were born a little later."

To his knowledge, his mother lost one child before he was born and four before Georgiana was born. Each lying in killed a little bit more her, physically and emotionally. When it was Georgiana's turn, he had a difficult time seeing her and not imagining his mother pale and cold in her lying in bed. Providence seemed to be on his side. Georgiana was healthy throughout the whole episode and was able to heal as soon as could be expected.

"I'm sorry, William. It's often that the best times in life can also be the most heart wrenching."

"Why did you choose to become a doctor? Of all of the professional choices that seem to be available to women now, I wonder why you chose a path that is so…"

"So?"

"I'm trying to find a word that will not offend you."

Liz laughed, albeit quietly with Genny sleeping down the hall. "Why don't you try to explain why my career choice seems odd to you. I promise that I will not be offended."

"Very well," Darcy reluctantly replied. "I found it incredibly difficult to trust doctors. Most of their methods seemed medieval and more reminiscent of torture rather than healing. What's more is their very profession requires and invasion of one's privacy. And you can quite literally hold another person's life in your hands. I'm not sure why someone, especially a woman, would willingly choose a profession so demanding and manual."

Liz couldn't help but smirk, though her look eventually softened into a fond and patient smile.

"My motivation is pretty basic," she explained. "I wanted to be a catalyst for life. At the time that I was going to college, I needed to do something with purpose and meaning. Medicine seemed to check all of those boxes. Much of what I do now is facilitated by technology so I don't have to rely on a lot of the guess work that was inherent in your day. Also, we are lightyears ahead of your time in terms of our understanding of the body and the way it works. Bloodletting, dark rooms, and questionable tinctures are a thing of the past."

"It seems unfathomable that people still die," he quipped, then instantly regretted his ill-chosen joke.

"It happens," Liz all but whispered. "Humanity hasn't discovered how to cheat the inevitability of death."

Both were quiet. Liz was lost in her thoughts of the past and past possibilities while Darcy frantically thought of a way to save the conversation.

"Listen, William, it's late. We should both get some rest."

"Right, of course. I apologize for keeping you awake." He cursed his horrible tongue and his inability to talk about anything without sticking his foot firmly in his mouth.

"There's nothing to apologize for. I'm glad I got to talk to you."

"I'm glad, as well. Perhaps I can call on you later?" Darcy hoped to keep a pleading tone out of his voice. The rules for engaging with the opposite sex in this day in age still eluded him. Apparently, he didn't have to adhere to specific times, but having late night conversations seemed incredibly intimate.

"Sure, but don't get upset when I can't answer. As you can imagine, my schedule can be unpredictable."

"I will endeavor to set reasonable expectations."

"Good night, William."

"Good night, Elizabeth."

As anxious as Darcy was to talk to her, he found that he was able to sleep quite quickly and easily that night. Next time he would prepare talking points and think of appropriate, safe topics of conversation.

Liz, at the other end of the country, found herself haunted by ghosts. Not for the last time, she imagined what she would have done to save her family. She knew all of the injuries intimately. Dad drowned in his own blood when it filled his lungs. Jane and Mary died of blunt force trauma to their skulls when they collided into each other. Lydia and Cat bled out when glass shards cut into their legs. Mom was lucky; her neck snapped instantly. Charles suffered severe internal hemorrhaging.

William's ill-timed and innocent comment sent her instantly to those scenes, those medical charts, and those conversations with doctors when they explained that there was nothing they could do.

Her popcorn bowl long forgotten, Liz found a blanket and curled up on the couch. She couldn't stand to sleep in their bed tonight.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 _Thank heavens for Genny._

That was Liz's mantra during the days that followed her late night call with William. She was rocked by the memories of her past, tormented when asleep, and was exhausted the following morning, truly feeling like she was suffering from some form of PTSD.

 _Thank heavens for Genny._

Genny didn't allow her to wallow. When Genny was awake, she required all of Liz's attention, including smiles, squeals, dramatic readings, tickle time, and lots and lots of cleaning. In short, Genny was a fantastic distraction. Caring for her allowed Liz to forget her own issues and focus on the future. Liz would stare at her while she navigated the tricky world of self-feeding and be reminded that her past was in the past. Genny was her future and she needed a mother who was whole and functioning.

 _Thank heavens for Genny._

Watching Genny sleep was equivalent to spa day for Liz's soul. Children, in general, encompassed all that was good and hopeful about the world. Her heart swelled with love and confidence when she watched her little girl sleep. As she made it through each day, ending with a few hours with her little angel, Liz felt like she was beginning to heal.

The months she spent closeted in her home after Genny's birth and Charles's death weren't exactly healthy, as she could now see. She spent her days alone with his things, remembering their goals and vision for the future. She didn't see or talk to anyone aside from her neighbor, Jack, her mother-in-law, and her nurse at the office. She shouldn't have stayed home for so long. She needed to be productive and social. She used to be outgoing, fun loving, and unfailingly optimistic. After her family's horrific accident, she felt like the only way to survive was to turn her bubbling insides into reinforced steel. So, she focused on school. Avoided parties and only talked to people she met in class. Her determination to survive—for it could hardly be termed living—served her well. She graduated top of her class and mastered her class with frightening and intimidating efficiency. Though unknown to her, she was known as the Iron Lady among her classmates.

Meeting Charles had been a challenge to her traumatized heart. He frightened her with his boundless enthusiasm and happiness. When they started dating—after he asked her out for two weeks complete—she panicked when she felt her heart start to truly beat again. The Bennets had always been a passionate crew and Liz was no different. She was made to love. As soon as she recognized that need, she embraced Charles with all of her heart and soul. They married quickly and she vowed to follow him everywhere. She staked her future happiness in him. And then it was all gone.

It was time for her to sculpt a new future for herself and Genny. She needed to be the architect of her own happiness.

She and William spoke somewhat regularly and he always called at the same time. Somehow he knew when Genny was asleep and she was free to talk. They talked about Pemberley, current news, history, technology—William almost had a stroke when she talked to him about the possibilities to be found on the worldwide web—but they rarely touched the nuclear topics: their families, their past lives, or what they wanted to do next week, next month, or in the next five years.

But, listening to him talk about Pemberley and the deep devotion and connection he had to the land was inspiring. Pemberley anchored William. His world, his entire existence, had been turned upside down and inside out. Although he didn't seem the type to deeply and continually examine his feelings, he seemed to be coping well with the hand he was dealt. For William, the natural and instinctual course was to go back to his roots and find himself among his family. It wasn't hard to imagine that bringing a little bit of the South into London would do the same for her.

Though far from affluent, the Bennet clan had strong roots in South Carolina. They had lived in the Charleston area for generations. She had ancestors who served in the Civil War and every other war the United States had seen. Her family had a history of patriotism and love of land that she suddenly felt guilty for abandoning. She owed it to Genny to remember the pleasant and warm memories of her past. She was a child of two worlds and needed to be proud of both. Naturally, she hoped to find herself again in the process reconnecting. Her world was shattered ten years ago; it was about time she started to put it back together.

About a month after her first phone call with William, Liz received an unexpected, but pleasant, call from Margie.

"You friend needs to get out," Margie said without preamble.

Truly shocked, Liz frantically asked, "Why? I thought that he—the two of you—were doing well. From what William has said, he's been able to take on tours and even started working with some of the studio agents about scheduling Pemberley for filming."

"Shush, shush," Margie interrupted. "He's a fine man and I couldn't be more pleased with his work. Though a bit of an odd one, he works had and cares about quality. Truth be told, I don't know where he comes up with some of his stories about the estate. He tells them with such confidence, even though I've never heard of half of them in all my research… No, William doesn't need to leave Pemberley permanently. He needs to get out once and a while. He spends all of his time on the estate as if he's afraid to see what lies beyond its property lines."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

"Of course, but he's so stoic and direct. He simply says that everything at Pemberley is adequate to his needs."

"Well, if he doesn't feel the need to go out, what's the harm of letting him keep to himself?" She would have liked to clarify that William wouldn't stand a chance without someone by his side to guide him if his days alone in London were any indicator.

"Forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I think you of all people know how unhealthy and dangerous it is to stay locked up in one place for too long."

Liz pursed her lips and silently agreed that she was right, but she was reluctant to say so. Margie used her silence to continue pressing her case.

"He's too young to be a hermit and too handsome to stay hidden away from lovely young girls. He has the same air of great loss that you do. He needs to experience life, not through himself into work. Now, I haven't been able to convince him to be more social, but I think you may have more success."

Liz audibly sighed into the phone. "I'll see what I can do. But I guarantee that he'll be uncomfortable and not a little offended that we're treating him like a child."

"Oh posh, he just needs a push and you're clever enough to make him see sense without taking him to task."

"I'll try, but that's all I can promise. I won't drag him out of Pemberley and push him into a club."

"Wonderful! That's all I ask."

Liz wasn't able to talk to William until Friday night. Again, he managed to call about 20 minutes after she put Genny to bed.

She smiled while answering, "Hello, William."

"Good evening, Elizabeth. How has your day been?"

"Just fine. Hey, how do you know when to call me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You always seem to know when I'm free. It's like you have a sixth sense about me or you're spying on me," she jokingly accused.

"I assure you, madam, I do not spy on you!" he shockingly replied. To invade someone's privacy in such a way seemed unthinkable. "The hour of my call is determined logic," he hastily explained. "It is considered proper to call later in the morning or early in the afternoon. I just assumed that you would be occupied with patients and during the day. I didn't want to take you away from spending time with Miss Genny. I read a report on the internet that stated that infants should retire between seven and nine in the evening to ensure that they receive adequate sleep. Given Miss Genny's age and your devotion as a mother, I thought that it would be best to call you around nine in the evening."

His explanation only made Liz grin more widely and with more bemusement. The man was more fastidious than she gave him credit for!

"If this is not an appropriate or convenient time …" he embarrassingly added, misconstruing her silence as offence.

"No, William, you're fine. I just found the coincidence uncanny, that's all. Though I should have known that nothing you do is coincidence. You seem to do everything deliberately and thoughtfully."

"Yes, well, deceit and subterfuge are abhorrent to me. I make every effort to act honestly and thoughtfully. It wouldn't do to behave without any thought or consideration for the consequences of one's actions."

Liz's eyes now danced with amusement and fondness. "You are truly one of a kind, William. Your type of chivalry isn't common. I suppose the consideration took me by surprise."

Looking to steer the conversation towards her assignment from Margie she asked, "How was your day?"

"It was a success. Pemberley will host a film crew this December to shoot some film or another about lords and their ladies. It is truly atrocious the amount of money that is spent just to procure the grounds for a couple weeks of work. I don't know if my mind will ever adjust to the amounts."

"I know. Inflation has a way of devaluing what's valuable. I remember my grandpa talking about candy or shakes that he'd buy for pennies and dimes that now cost at least a dollar. It's a blessing, though. The studios help keep Pemberley solvent and in the family."

"Tis true, but it's still an exorbitant amount of money."

"It is. So, what are your plans for the weekend?"

"I'm endeavoring to learn more about a couple of computer programs and improve my skill on the keyboard. I'm thoroughly tired of Margie scoffing and rolling her eyes at my ineptitude. As you can imagine, I don't entirely relish the idea of being deficient."

"A worthy goal, but don't you think you deserve to do something, I don't know, more recreational?"

"What do you suggest? I'm sure I'll ride the estate while the weather is fine. The air is a bit crisp and cold, but still ideal for riding."

"I'm glad the horses are getting some exercise. What I was thinking of was a bit more social and with humans. Why don't you get out and explore Lambton and meet some people?"

He paused as if considering all of the consequences and benefits of social recreation, then decisively replied, "I see no need. I'm perfectly content at home. There's enough to occupy my time with learning new skills and reading 200 years' worth of world history. I've begun studying World War I and can hardly fathom the cruelty of that war."

Undeterred, she decided to try a different angle. "I'm glad you're not moping around the mansion and that you're staying busy, but you can't hide forever."

"I'm not hiding. I'm comfortable and content in my solitude. It has always been my way."

"You are hiding. You can't live your life alone."

" _I don't want to leave you here to live your life alone," Georgiana tearfully confessed, days before her wedding._

" _Oh sweetling, there's no need to worry about your stodgy brother," he joked. "You know I'm never happier than at home with a good book. You must promise to write as often as possible so I may add your letters to my entertainment."_

" _You need to live, Brother. You deserve true joy, not simple comfort with a book. Oh how I wish I could find someone worthy of you! You would be such an excellent father!_

"Hello? William?"

"Yes. I'm here," he numbly replied, shaken by the memory of his sister. Their pleas were so similar and it disturbed him to realize that though the date in which he lived had changed, his circumstance had not. He was still alone, without even the benefit of Georgiana's letters, though Liz's phone calls did much to allay his loneliness.

"I think it would do you a world of good to make a few friends. Beyond myself and Margie, I mean. I'm sure some sort of man time would be fun for you."

"I've never been particularly skilled at recommending myself to strangers. I used to be protected by the rules of polite society and the necessity of introductions. It's obvious that modern humanity has largely done away with such niceties. However am I supposed to meet someone?"

"It's simple. You walk up to someone you'd like to meet, stick out your hand and say, 'Hi, I'm William.' You're a smart man. I think you are more than capable of keeping up a conversation. You talk to me all the time."

"You are different. You're warm and interesting and you already know me."

"And you will know more people if you leave Pemberley to meet them," she urged. Since he remained silent, she pressed her case. "I know that it's scary. I know it seems safer to stay where you are and close yourself to the world. But considering all you've lost, it won't take long until you become a shell of your former self. You crave connection, William. I can see it in the way you work and in your devotion to Pemberley. Going home was the best thing for you, but land and estates can't supplant human interaction. You'll never have a future if you stay frozen where you are."

"Please," she pleaded. "Just try. You don't have to go alone. I'm sure Margie can ask one of the local guys to take you around, that way you won't be completely alone."

Liz impatiently waited for William to reply. She only felt a little hypocritical pushing him to be more social when it took her the better part of a year to regularly leave her apartment for anything except groceries.

"I will consider your proposal," he slowly said. "I recognize the merit in what you say, but it is not my way to nor is it in my nature to easily converse with those who are unknown to me. I deplore inconsequential niceties about the weather, the food, fashion, or any other dull topic required to fill space and time."

"But small talk is necessary to meeting new people. Most people are like onions. You can't chop them in half to see what keeps them centered and soulful; you need to slowly peel back the layers. You can be quite charming when you're not offensive and stoic. Just pretend you're talking to me or Margie."

"You find me charming?" The thought warmed him, surprised and mildly triumphant that he could affect her so.

"I said you could be when you put your mind to it. You're a pretty thick onion, if you know what I mean, and you take some time to get used to, which is why you need to practice small talk so you can make friends and have something to do other than research when you're not working."

"I have never had a lot of friends, although I have always had innumerable acquaintances as required of my station. I doubt I will have anything in common with the people of Lambton. Aren't shared experiences the foundations upon which most friendships are made?"

"They are, but how are you supposed know another's story without talking to them? You're smart, but you're not clairvoyant."

She was right and it galled him to see that he was not going to win this particular debate. "I promise to try. I'm afraid that is the best I can offer at present."

"Great! I'll tell Margie she needs to find you a buddy to take you out on the town. Talk to you later. Bye!" she quickly replied, hanging up the phone before Darcy could object.

The poor man was left staring at the blank screen of his mobile wondering what he had just agreed to.

Margie was predictably smug when Liz told her that William was open to the idea of getting out of the house for a little adventure. She agreed that he would be lost and the experience wasted if he were to venture out on his own. She called her neighbor who had a son around William's age who was kind and outgoing. Together with her neighbor, Margie decided that they'd set the auspicious event for next weekend. Darcy was visibly uncomfortable with the entire scheme, but Margie couldn't stand to see more youth and opportunity wasted. If Margie was closer to Liz, she would have forced her out of doors sooner, instead of letting her lock herself up with her baby. No matter, she now had her chance with William.

Whenever Darcy wasn't working, he was worrying about this "outing" that had been scheduled for him. He met George, a Lambton local somehow connected to Margie. He was an electrician who was routinely called to work at Pemberley. The only objection Darcy currently had to his appointed companion was that he smiled and talked too much. However, his flaws might work to Darcy's advantage by requiring little contribution to keep a conversation going. George was looking forward to taking him around and suggested dinner at a pub. According to Elizabeth, pubs were often dark and sometimes dingy, but they had the best food.

Darcy also had to worry about what to talk about. Normally, he could discuss politics, farming techniques, business opportunities, horses, and other such topics with other men. In twenty-first century he was at a complete lost. Elizabeth was kind enough to supply him with talking points and websites that furnish current trends and issues so he wouldn't feel like a compete dullard. In this way he was able to study and prepare for an evening among modern men and, as he was soon to find out, among modern women as well.

An hour before George was scheduled to pick him up, Darcy made his way to the gallery. Though not a trek he often made, he found himself in need of familiar comfort. He quickly found the portraits of his parents and sister and searched his own memory for words of comfort and encouragement they may have provided.

His father, the man who taught Darcy how to be honorable and duty-bound, would have reminded him that it was his duty to be an active participant in society. _You are a man of privilege,_ he would have said. _It is your moral duty to improve the world around you with your charity and your example._ While very true in his day, Darcy was unsure what he would be able to contribute to a society 200 years removed from everything he had known. The fact of the matter was simple. He was no longer the master of Pemberley. He no longer managed estates, held memberships to reputable and important clubs, or had connections to the most influential persons in the country. He was starting to earn money, but not nearly in the excess that he was used to. His clothing and possessions had been donated. His job was given to him, not inherited or earned. Though learned and knowledgeable, what he knew was considered antiquated and useless. Darcy had been brought very low.

It was then that Darcy heard the voice of his mother. _You are good and kind, my dear boy. Never fear what others may think or say about you. Your goodness is your strength and will see you through even the roughest waters._ A small, warm smile pulled at his lips as he remembered why he had needed such encouragement. While reserved as a man, Darcy was ever shy as a boy. His station protected him direct criticisms, but he was unfortunate enough to hear what was said of him by some of the boys from neighboring estates. They thought him dull and trial to be around. Not much had changed over the years, but Darcy's skin became thicker and his circle of friends smaller and more cherished.

He felt his phone vibrate before he heard it ringing. George had arrived. Darcy squared his shoulders, gave one last look at his loved ones, and made his way to the front entrance.

 **A/N: Thank you to everyone one who continues to read and review this story. It began with one thought and one scene and it's really beginning to blossom, thanks to your encouragement. One reviewer said that they had never imagined Darcy in our day. I chuckled a bit because I think about it all the time! I love seeing qualities that I love and hate in my husband and think that even though Fitzwilliam Darcy will never end up on a park bench in my neighborhood, it's not too hard to find him in the men around me. Happy reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

George thankfully kept the conversation going during the short drive into Lambton. Darcy was grateful and relieved to hear that small talk hadn't changed much in the last 200 years.

 _How've you been? What have you been up to?_

 _Weather has been fantastic all autumn. Perfect for football. Last week, we had an amazing match . . ._

 _Happy to see they've started to patch up this road. Rain has a way of muddling up even the sturdiest roads. You know what I mean?_

While George chattered away, Darcy reviewed a list of current happenings and subjects he could focus on. Current events and politics had always intrigued him. Unfortunately, the cultural aspects of today's society continued to be foreign and awfully loud and useless to his educated mind. Try as he might, he couldn't convince his mind and ears to tolerate the noise that regularly droned from televisions and music devices. Nothing seemed to edify or enlighten. With any luck, George and his friends would be more interested in Parliament than gossip and entertainment. Elizabeth warned him that it was unlikely, but assured him that he wouldn't offend if he stayed silent and only appeared interested. _Not everyone needs to be a chatty Kathy_ , she had said. _You seem to be the brooding type anyway._ While he would never admit to brooding in public, he would easily claim a more reserved and observant nature in public.

"So how do you like Lambton?" George asked, snapping Darcy from his mental warmup.

"I haven't been to Lambton recently, but I remember it as being a quiet, quaint little town," he said. His answer was vague, but truthful, if not the complete and unabridged truth. Darcy assumed that was a line he would have to navigate throughout the evening.

"Lambton hasn't changed much in the last 50 years. There are a couple of restaurants, a pub, a few shops, a bakery, a church, a petrol station, and a small grocery store. There's not much for entertainment, but you'll never meet a more welcoming bunch."

Secretly, Darcy was becoming more anxious about seeing all of the changes that would inevitably show themselves in his little village. Fifty years may not have changed much, but Darcy now understood that his homeland had undergone an industrial revolution, two wars, and various modern updates that made his England seem almost primal and barbaric. Even he could admit that much would have been improved if only a decent plumbing system were in place. Electricity was also much preferable to fire.

"I assure you that I don't require much by way of entertainment. I prefer a night at home with a book to many social events, though I am partial to the theater," he winced slightly at his reference to the theater, hoping that people still attended the theater.

George grinned in response.

"Margie told me that you had hermit habits. Well, I'm glad you decided to come out tonight. The pub isn't too rowdy. It really reminds me of a British Cheers—everybody knows your name!"

Knowing he was going to a pub reassured him not at all. Pubs attracted people from all walks of life, imbibing as much and as long as their pockets would allow them. Excessive drink meant excessive noise and no respect for propriety or space. Oh, why did he decide to go out tonight? Elizabeth, that's why. She was the infuriating reason behind this little adventure. He knew he needed to re-enter society, and it rankled every sensibility to acknowledge she was right. Darcy hated being persuaded to do something that was so against his nature; it made him supremely uncomfortable and temperamental. If there was a God, and He hadn't completely abandoned him, this modern-day pub would only admit gentlemen. He had little hope that he wouldn't cause offense if he encountered the fairer sex.

George parked off to the side of the road and explained that the pub was just down the street. Darcy slowly stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. As air filled his lungs, a simple thought drifted through his mind: the country always smells the same. He had always relished those moments, whether he was in a carriage or on a horse, when he finally escaped the city and all of its putrid smells of smoke, human and animal waste, rotten food, stale liquor, and layers of dirt. The gentle sweetness of fresh air was a sure indicator that he had left the boundaries of the city and had finally entered the country.

Just as it had in the past, the smell of the country reinvigorated and filled Darcy with peace. It was just a simple dinner with other local men. Nothing traumatic would happen. He'd be able to eat, listen to the conversation going on around and leave, hopefully, an hour later.

"This is it!" George swept his arm toward a building called The Pretty Pony. Its exterior was nothing remarkable. It resembled a small home, like a parsonage, brown and nondescript. Outside the door, he read and frowned at a display board that read: Fat people are harder to kidnap! Stay safe! Eat lots here!

 _Great heavens! The evening already feels interminable._

The establishment was nearly empty and George gratefully chose a table in a corner near the back. While George got the attention of a barman, Darcy browsed the menu and quickly found a meat pie that seemed somewhat familiar. However, when it was time to order, George immediately rejected his choice and insisted that he order the burger. He continued to describe it ways that made it seem messy and ungentlemanly. Already fed up with the evening and anxious to return to home, Darcy tried to graciously accept his judgement and pray that the evening would end soon.

Luckily, George steered the conversation toward Pemberley, asking Darcy how he enjoyed the estate. They were discussing the latest film that was scheduled to start filming there in the spring when their food arrived. Darcy's original conjecture was right. The terms _juicy_ , _mouthwatering_ , and _cheesy_ meant messy, undignified, and shouldn't be eaten within view of polite society. But Darcy couldn't deny that it was the best thing he had eaten in weeks. It was rich, full of flavor, and completely satiating. Since he spent most nights on his own, he settled for a few sandwiches that he had seen others who worked on the estate bring for lunch. He tried to replicate them on his own, but the most he achieved was a meal that would temporarily fill his stomach. Margie was kind and would occasionally bring him food on Sunday, but nothing compared to the hot juiciness that was the grilled cheeseburger with sautéed onions and mushrooms and what George referred to as special sauce. If eating delectable food was his reward for going out, then he had indeed found his motivation for socializing.

As they ate, The Pretty Pony began to fill with more patrons and the noise grew exponentially. From their dress, they all seemed to be well-to-do, not the rabble that Darcy was used to seeing in a place like this. Friendly gestures were exchanged as groups gathered and the seats at the bar quickly filled. When the tables next to theirs filled with the loud laughter and chaotic conversation, Darcy felt his back and neck muscles to tense. It seemed that even his familiar aversion to large groups, especially raucous ones, was event to distract him from his delightful meal.

Fate must have truly had a vendetta against Darcy because one of the loud tables was filled with friends of George. He invited them over and introduced them to Darcy who could only nod in response, not being able to hear their names against his silent attempts to find an excuse to leave. He would walk the five miles back to Pemberley if needed!

Somebody asked him to "scooch" to make room to combine the tables and he found himself seated next to a blonde woman. Before he could school his features, his senses were assaulted by her perfume and he winced involuntarily. Praying the poor woman didn't see him, he turned toward her—holding his breath—and offered her a brief, curt nod. Darcy had to remember to breathe out of his mouth if she was going to sit next to him the rest of the night.

"Hello," she said, leaning in to him. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I'm sure you haven't. This is my first time to this, um, pub."

"Oh!" she squealed, reminding Darcy of how Georgiana would react to new sheet music or bonnet. "You're new to Lambton? Do you plan on staying long?"

"I am, in fact, not new to Lambton and my plans are not yet fixed."

"I, for one, hope your plans include some time in our little village. I think I'll enjoy getting to know you."

Darcy had no idea how to respond to such forwardness. Getting up to stand at the edges of the room seemed an unlikely way to make friends. Plus, he wasn't sure what was considered forward for women these days and what was now accepted behavior. Flirtations existed in his time and Darcy hated them as much then as he did now. There was nothing more irksome than feigned and fabricated attraction. Why couldn't people simply say what they meant without all of the insinuation, all of the games?

He sat still and silent as the rest of the group traded jokes, stories, and memories from other similar nights. Darcy observed it all, trying to capture the flow of conversation and failing miserably. He was never particularly good at having a friendly and purposeless conversation with anyone who wasn't a close friend or family. Now, mix in references unknown to him and in tones that were so loud they bordered on being impolite, Darcy's characteristic stiff and stoic posture turned to stone. He felt his scowl deepen and his breathing become more forceful. He had assumed that he was adjusting admirably to his unheard of time jump. He was back at Pemberley. He was using a computer and reading the news daily. He was watching movies and other television shows, for heaven's sake!

He'd never be able to assimilate. And he couldn't go home.

In frustration and panic, he abruptly stood and hoped he gave an acceptable excuse before exiting the pub. He walked more than a mile down the road before a car passed and, thankfully, did not stop.

 _Stupid, stupid. Arrogant and naïve. What was I thinking? Modern man? I am no modern man and never will be! What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be? I was born to be a kind, judicious master. I was trained at my father's side, was educated at Eton and then at Cambridge, completed a respectable tour on the Continent. I shouldered my inheritance with dignity and Pemberley prospered as never before. What could I have possibly done to offend the Fates, the gods, or whoever actually runs my damned existence?_

Darcy continued to fume as he stalked off in what he hoped was the direction of Pemberley. He was grateful to see the lights of the estate up head. He eventually made his way to a back entrance that used to be a servants' entrance—yet more proof of his descent to nothingness. He trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, shut the door and stared into even more nothingness. If only Richards would come through his dressing room door, help him remove his boots, and hand him a brandy.

He turned on the lights and started to pace with his hands clasped behind his back, the sound muffled by the admittedly superior carpet now in his bedchamber. He tried to think rationally, find a solution to his situation, a remedy to his madness, but couldn't bring his thoughts from the increasingly all-consuming thoughts of despair and loneliness. Naming his feelings made him feel even more weak and helpless, then he remembered that these emotions were not new to him. He felt them on the night he disappeared after drinking the magic cognac. Instead of being in his room, he was pacing the length of his study, waiting for his family to arrive for the birthday dinner his sister had arranged for him—though it was meant to be a surprise. He was a man who had everything, but felt incredibly empty, like something had been stolen from him. While still a considered a young man, he truly felt his age that night. He felt time slipping away from him and wondering when he would begin the next stage: establishing his own family. It was the one duty he had failed to complete. Though Pemberley could survive without his issue, he knew it was his duty to provide for Pemberley's prosperous future in every way.

 _This is preposterous! I am a well-educated gentleman—I am a man! I will get a hold on these volatile and useless emotions._

His pacing lost some its vigor, though his face seemed to harden into a scowl. Whatever it was that brought him here was unadulterated evil. What other force would pull a man from all he knows, reduce him to little more than a pauper, and abandon him in an unknown land, surrounded by strangers and even stranger customs? His anger blinded him again and he wished he could go or a ride. Instead, he left his room to storm the halls of the estate that used to be his.

 _I may as well be a ghoul that haunts unsuspecting ghouls. I am no better or useful than a specter, a lone relic of the way things used to be._

Liz didn't hear from anyone at Pemberley for more than a week. She fully expected a late night recap of William's night out, but hadn't heard a peep or received a single text from William or Margie. Hoping that they were just busy getting the estate ready for the winter and Christmas season, she set her mind to work and Genny.

By the beginning of November without any news from up north, Liz called Margie to do a little recon before calling William that night.

"Margie," Liz preamble, "how are you? How's the winter prep going?"

"Oh, this old place runs like a well-oiled machine, thanks to me. Truthfully, there's not much for me to do. Your William works like a madman and hardly allows me to do more than accompany him in the cart to look at the progress he's made."

"How is he? I haven't heard from him in almost two weeks."

"He's . . . fine," Margie hesitantly replied as she tried to find the right words to convey her worry.

"I'm actually becoming quite worried about him. He works like a dog, but hardly says a word beyond what's absolutely necessary. I worry about him being alone at night and wonder what he does with himself. I doubt he sleeps if the dark circles under his eyes are any indication. The poor boy won't talk to me, but I think he'll talk to you, my dear."

Margie could hear Liz sigh on the other end before she answered, "I'll call him tonight after I get Genny down. Thanks, Margie. Let me know if there's anything you need from me."

"Now that you mention it," she paused, hoping that she wasn't being too forceful or demanding, "I would love for you to invite William to the city for a few days. He needs to get off this estate. Whatever happened when he went out with George made him more reclusive and I'm afraid this place is slowly killing him. He needs a change of scenery and to be with someone he trusts."

"He's not a child that needs sheltering," she nearly spat, frustrated that William had to be handled with kid gloves at his age.

"No, no he's not. But no matter our age, we all want to feel safe and protected by people we love and trust. You of all people should understand that and be a bit more empathetic. For all of William's strength and intelligence, that man is little more than a lost boy. I can tell he's angry and depressed. He won't let me help him. He needs you."

"I know," Liz sighed. "I know that and I'm sorry. You've taken on a lot by letting him work there with no references or information beyond what I told you." Liz rubbed the back of her neck as she reviewed her calendar for a possible time for William to visit.

"I'll invite him for the week of Thanksgiving, which is the fourth week of November. That gives you a little over two weeks to have everything in hand before I take away your most valuable worker."

"Wonderful! Thank you, dear girl. I'll reserve his ticket for the train this afternoon."

"He may not want to see me. Just wait until he agrees to the trip."

"Oh pish posh. He wants to see you even if he says no. I'll get the ticket now so all credible excuses are out of the way."

All Liz could do was chuckle at the woman's aggressive, but gentle, approach to people problems.

That night, Liz made a cup of tea before settling into an oversized armchair, mentally and physically preparing herself for her call. From what she'd learned from Margie, William was going to be angry. Experience told her that Liz had very little patience with angry people and would quickly become defensive—and offensive—in response.

 _Charles never got angry_. He was always happy and calm, just the man she needed to soothe her irritated and occasionally volatile spirit. As she found William's number, she tried to summon Charles's calm and imagine how he would handle a situation like this.

"Hello," William said in answer to her call.

"Hi, William! How are you? We haven't talked in a while," Liz said, trying to force an extra dose of cheerfulness into her tone to mask her nervousness and make him more comfortable, like one does with a grumpy kid.

"I've been quite busy of late. I apologize for not calling."

Liz thought he sounded anything but sorry. Undeterred, she ploughed ahead.

"You never told me about your night out with George. What did y'all do?"

"We went to a pub."

"Which one?"

"The Pretty Pony."

"They have great food there. Charles took me there once and the burger was divine."

"Yes, the food is satisfactory."

 _Satisfactory?_ "Well, did you meet anyone."

"A few people, but I didn't stay long enough to recall much about them, let alone their names."

"Wow, okay." The friendly approach wasn't working; time to try a frontal assault. "William, are you okay? You seem angry and Margie said you've hardly spoken to anyone since you went out with George. What happened?"

"I'm not sure what propriety demands of privacy today, but I have always come to expect that my business is mine and not up for discussion or analyzing. You and Margie will kindly desist from discussing me in the future," William tersely replied.

"William, we care. We weren't gossiping. We only want to help."

"I don't need your help nor do I want it. Furthermore, there is absolutely nothing you can do to help me."

Liz could feel her temper rising and took a calming Charles breath before continuing.

"William. Please, tell me what's wrong. You can't let whatever you're feeling build until you implode."

"Enough useless advice!" he exploded. "It was at your damned insistence that I went to that pub and was surrounded by people who I could never hope to understand. I've never done well in public or performed well for strangers and a change in century will not change me. I don't belong here! I can't go home and will never be at ease in this day and age. No matter how many senseless platitudes you lecture me with, you will never fix whatever has happened to me. I'm certain I will find a way out of this mess without needing to defend myself to you or Margie or any other well-meaning but nosy busybody. I will say it again madam, kindly desist."

"Why are you angry with me? I've only ever tried to help you."

"And I am telling you to stop! You've only ever made things worse for me. Returning me to Pemberley? It may as well be a tomb, full of all of the dead things I love. Sending me your dead husband's clothing? I've never worn anything that wasn't tailored to me and my tastes. Every time I dress I'm reminded of everything that's been taken from me and your so-called charity only exacerbates the situation. A man must have his pride and I need to find mine again."

"Fine. I'll stop paying your phone bill. I'll stop looking into setting up a bank account for you or finding a way for you to have valid ID. I'll definitely stop worrying about how you're adjusting to Pemberley. I'll tell Margie she can stop training you to manage Pemberley, you ungrateful ass! And I definitely won't invite you to London for a week to be with me and Genny. I don't want you to ruin our holiday. Goodbye, Mr. Darcy." Liz tearfully and angrily ended the call, staring out over a darkened Regent's Park until she fell asleep.

 **A/N: Whew! This chapter gave me a run for my money. I had to rewrite it three times until I felt like I wasn't writing for a Disney channel sitcom. A huge thank you to those who review, follow, and add me or this story to your favorites list. Your interest inspires and motivates me.**


End file.
